Pain Management
by LickMyThermometer
Summary: House is in a bad way. Chase knows a better way to cope than stealing a dead guy's pills. Mind the rating. MxM bdsm.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **

This story is not quite slash as I understand it… at least not yet. For now, call it **guy-on-guy BDSM** without a sexual component. For now.

In **_Merry Little Christmas, _**when House returns to the hospital towards the end to run into Wilson and steal the dead guy's pills: What if he ran into Chase instead – and Chase had a creative idea about how to help?

* * *

"House!" Chase rushed across the lobby and brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I was just going to go looking for you." 

"You've found me. Congratulations. Got pills?"

"No- I mean… look, we have to talk." He looked around quickly. "Two questions. One: how desperate are you? Cameron says-"

"Look at me."

Chase did; it was answer enough. "Understood. Second question, and please don't be insulted: I need to know how much of this is pain and withdrawal, and how much is… is you needing a fix." He dropped his eyes for the last bit.

There was a long silence. "I'm not looking for a joyride," House snapped at last. "I need help. If you've got so much as an anti-puking pill, cough it up."

"Thought so. Come on – your office. It's empty."

House followed him through a roundabout, loopy path that would keep them from running into Cuddy or Wilson or Foreman or Cameron. On the way, Chase handed him pills and warned, "Don't get excited – it's not Vicodin. I went upstairs and talked very nicely to the rehab people..."

"Let me guess: at the mere mention of my name, they immediately filled your pockets with enough methadone and pamphlets to tackle Saigon."

"Something like that." Chase was unapologetic. "This will help with the withdrawal… which is half your problem."

House didn't say anything else until they had made it to his office and locked the door behind them. "And the other half?" he prompted at last.

"Pain." Chase planted his feet apart and crossed his arms. "Cameron says you've been cutting."

"Yah. The endorphins-"

"I get it. I dated a masochist, remember?"

Another long, silent moment. House's lips twitched and he opened his mouth, but before he could speak he got distracted by the realization that he already felt enough better to be making snarky comments. Well… _better _wasn't quite the word. He felt slightly less sick unto death. "So…?"

"So I know that Cuddy and Wilson are both about half an inch from caving… and I'm thinking that if you had an actual diagnosis to bargain with – not to mention it could save the girl's life – it might push them over the edge. They can get you your pills, and you'll turn normal again, and then we can all, together, figure out how to get rid of that cop."

House's head ached with the effort of thinking. "But _until_ they cave, we can't get me pills. And there's no way I can solve the dwarf feeling like this."

"I know. That's why I brought up the cutting." Chase went over to the blinds and closed them. "Drop your pants and bend over."

* * *

At first House just stared. Was he so sick he'd started hallucinating? 

No… the way Chase was toying with the long fiberglass curtain rod was anything but idle. He still wouldn't turn to make eye contact… which was no surprise, after all – how the hell could you look at your boss with a straight face and say that?

House cleared his throat. "Um…"

"I know how to give you a beating that would feel good," Chase continued as he fiddled around detaching his weapon from its place on the wall. "I also know how to hit you hard enough to make that leg the least of your problems… which is probably more what you're after." Finally it came free, and he gave it an experimental swing through the air. It made a _whoosh _House could hear from across the room. "I can guarantee it'll do you better than the cutting, it's less dangerous, and it will be a hell of a lot less disabling than… oh, I don't know, _breaking your hand_. Not that you've ever done anything so stupid." House still hadn't moved, so he pressed: "All you'll have to show for it at the end of the day is a couple of welts on your behind. Do it – you'll be glad you did."

House's hands went slowly to his fly. "I'd be gladder if you were about to give me a shot of heroin in the butt," he said hopefully, but pushed his jeans down without further protest than that and turned to face his desk. "You know, if you delivered your diagnostic theories with half that much confidence, I'd probably listen to you a whole lot more."

"Quiet," Chase said shortly, stepping up beside him. "Brace your hands on the desk. Try not to make noise. This is what it will feel like:" He drew his arm back and swung the rod in a wide arc to land straight across House's butt cheeks.

A bright shocking flash of ow burst over him so fast that House straightened up with a gasp, clutching at his burning ass with both hands.

"Distracting enough for you?" Chase couldn't help sounding a little smug, even when House turned, face screwed up in pain, to shoot him a glare. "Let me know when you're ready."

"_Ah _hold on… … Okay. Yeah – do it again. Give me a whole bunch of them."

"You got it. Keep your hands out of the way."

Chase hated not being able to see what he was doing, but he knew he would really be pushing his luck if he asked his boss to remove the boxers too. He figured he would just do his best to remember where he was putting the hardest strokes, and try not to land them on top of each other.

He lay one hand over House's waistband to protect the tailbone, and started.

It had been a while since Chase had caned anybody, but he soon discovered he hadn't quite lost his touch. He would hit, wait for House to jerk and hiss, count out a few seconds for the pain to peak, and then hit again. He paused once he'd worked his way over the ass and halfway down the thighs – House was still cooperating brilliantly, but had begun breathing as hard as if he'd sprinted half a mile. "You okay?" He kept his voice brisk and professional, but couldn't help reaching out to pat and soothe the damage.

House nodded. "If I wasn't," he growled after a bit, "I would _say_ something – like _stop it, you freak._"

"This may not be the best time to pick on me," Chase mused, swatting a little to prove his point.

"Fair enough. Now go over it all again. Mm…"

"But ease up?" Chase guessed. "I will. It's always worse when you land on a spot you've already gotten."

"Du-_uh_."

So Chase scooped up the rod and hit him, hard, and only _afterwards_ asked, "Ready?"

"Jerk- _ah_-" This time around House squirmed and gasped things like _fuck _and _ow_ and gripped the desk so hard his knuckles turned white – that second trip over his welted ass was pure mind-numbing agony. It occupied every particle of him until there was nothing, at all, but stroke after stroke after stroke.

Finally there was a pause. He came back to himself a little – he was shaking. He throbbed. His ears were buzzing but still he could hear himself whimpering… crying almost.

Chase didn't seem bothered. He put down the rod and began a firm, rhythmic spanking with his hand. "How's it feel?"

This was a new sensation and even though House was twitching with every blow, it was really registering as heat now rather than pain. He found he was arching into it instead of flinching away. "Feels good."

"Okay, good." Chase kept on. "In a minute you're going to count five more for me – hard ones with the stick. That should tide you over for a while, right?" House nodded but didn't say anything that could be construed as a suggestion to stop the spanking, so eventually Chase rolled his eyes and stopped on his own. "Enough break. Ready?"

House took a breath and bowed his head. "Okay, yeah – go."

It was probably the hardest stroke yet, and House heaved several breaths in and out before he managed to gasp: "One."

Chase put the second one a little lower and got a yelp. "…two…"

He waited a moment, then warned, "All right, here we go…" before hitting again.

That one was a doozie; House actually cried out, and slapped his hand wildly on the desk. "Fuck," he wheezed after a moment, "_Ah _fuck. _Fuck_! Three."

"Sorry," Chase said calmly, "Must have found a sore spot."

House gave a short agonized laugh. "You little bast- _Tsss-_" This time it surprised him into a hiss even though it wasn't nearly so bad. "Four."

He shifted on his feet, expecting Chase to really let loose on the last one.

Chase didn't disappoint, and House hardly managed to speak the word _Five _through his grit teeth.

"And we're done." But House hardly heard – he was too busy shivering in ecstasy at the cool hand on his thigh. "Sit down," Chase laughed, helping him hobble over to his chair with his pants still tripping him up. He gave him a moment to collect himself before asking: "How are you feeling?"

Endorphins were capering around inside him so enthusiastically that he almost didn't hear. "Ladies and gentleman, we have liftoff." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

"How's your leg?"

"What leg?" House asked happily, but even as he said it he could feel a dull little twinge there, the promise of pain to come…

Without chewing up a buttload of Vicodin, though, this was as good as it was going to get. He sat up and nodded. "It'll be eminently bearable for a while. Hopefully, long enough for us to get our patient back to Barnum & Bailey's where she belongs. Go round up the posse and bring 'em up here."

"You look better. They're going to ask if you've been stealing pills."

"I'll tell them I found Jesus," House tossed off, "And he healed me with a touch. If I forget any of the details, I'm sure a nice little altarboy like you can cover for me."

Chase rolled his eyes. "Pull up your damn pants," he ordered, not seeming to realize how much nerve he had just acquired. "And put that stick someplace – we're probably going to need it again."

* * *

TBC. 

House will cut himself and smash his bones to chase an endorphin rush, and we know he has no problem calling professionals for sex, so why on earth hasn't he tried out a dominatrix? Or has he, and I just somehow missed that episode?

Funny thing is, I had this in my head long before I saw _Love Hurts _and found out Chase really does have a bit of BDSM experience.

Anyhow: please leave feedback! And I'll post more to this, hopefully soon. (In case you were wondering, my other story-in-progress will eventually get attention as well, but this one for right now is more fun.)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: If this is on your alerts list and you haven't reviewed, boo on you! Actually, I'm flattered you like it regardless. But still! Hmph!

Nothing explicit this chapter, sorry. Next time there will be.

* * *

Chase slipped into the clinic to look for Foreman and Cameron, but instead got himself noticed by all the wrong people. 

Cuddy and Wilson descended on him and backed him into a corner. "Where is he!" she demanded.

"Where is who?"

"Priests make terrible liars," Wilson sighed. "Where is House?"

Chase had never considered his fuse to be particularly short, but when the _traitor_ tried to take a paternal tone with him, he snapped. "In his office! Trying to do his job – probably for the last time, thanks to you. Now get your goddamn hands off me."

Wilson had been touching Chase's shoulder, his habitual _talk to me, I care _pose, but withdrew right away, leaving Chase free to push past them and continue on his mission. "Well, I don't know what you think you're doing," Cuddy called after him. "House is off the case."

"But I'm not. And I'm going to do what is most likely to save my patient: getting a consult with the best diagnostician we have. Have either of you got a problem with that?"

"I…no," she sighed, anger melting from her all at once. "Chase, Dr. Wilson did what he thought was right, and I… stand by him. We just want to _help _House…"

"Didn't you people learn your lesson with the leg? He doesn't need that kind of _help_! It's no wonder he-" Chase caught himself just in time. Allowing himself get all weepy about House letting people in and shutting people out would just not be very impressive right now. He had shown temper; that was good. Let them know he wouldn't be pushed around. Next he would need a diagnosis – and House in good enough shape to bargain rationally with it. "Just tell me where Foreman and Cameron are," he said wearily. "We've got work to do."

* * *

But instead, Cuddy and Wilson dragged Chase back upstairs, wanting to get a better picture of House's condition before they agreed to back even a single inch off the case. When they burst in, he was sitting at his desk, pulling at his lip, thinking. 

He looked up and frowned. "When I said to bring me the posse, it was a _figurative _posse. I meant Foreman and Cameron – not the actual mob of idiots trying to throw me in prison."

"Oh, did you? I got confused," Chase said sullenly, shooting them a death-glare.

But they didn't return it – they were both too busy staring at House. "Shouldn't you be detoxing?" Wilson asked, almost desperate.

"Not today," House chirped with his most innocent smile. In fact his stomach was still rolling a bit, but slowly. And he had mostly stopped sweating. "So, where are my henchpeople? Chase gave me a rundown of what's been-"

"Are you high?" Cuddy came up and leaned close to him, checking his pupils.

He checked her cleavage in return and didn't complain.

Again Chase felt his temper flaring. "Why do you always assume-"

"Because he's a junkie!" Wilson snapped.

There was silence for a moment, and then House locked eyes with Chase. "It's a pet name," he assured, almost quickly enough to hide his hurt feelings.

Still feeling unusually in charge, Chase decided there was no reason why everyone else shouldn't have to face reality. "They think you took pills. Why don't you show them?"

"Show us what?" Wilson asked, disgusted. "Track marks?"

House was usually good at letting people's misguided contempt roll right off him, but today had been something of a rough day and all at once he found himself nearly as indignant as Chase. "You want to know what I'm on?" he asked. "Fine." He stood up, came around the desk with a few short jerky steps, and yanked down his pants and underwear. "Now you know."

Cuddy tried several times to speak. "Oh my God," she managed at last. Wilson's jaw was working and his lips pressed together, but he couldn't quite put words together. Even Chase winced a little – the thick dark welts were well beyond anything he'd ever experienced for himself, and he imagined they must hurt like hell.

"Are we all finished checking out my ass?" House asked cheerfully, pulling up his pants. He turned to face them and defiantly met the stares one at a time. "_High_," he scoffed, shaking his head as though disappointed. "There we go judging books by their covers again. Have you guys learned nothing from our friends the little people? _Junkie?_ Just because I pop as many pills as a junkie doesn't mean I…" his eyes narrowed.

Chase knew that look. "What is it? House, what did you just… oh God, you do. You know something." He backtracked over what House had just said and tried to piece together his train of thought. It took a bit, but then all of a sudden it hit him like a sledgehammer. He gasped. "You mean you don't think she…"

House grinned at him. "Stupid assumption on our part, no?"

"But then… that would make it a-"

"Yup. Which puts one _hell _of a spin on the differential…" There was a moment of silence. "I think I have an idea."

"You- You know what's wrong with her?" As House was far too smug to talk to just now, Cuddy turned to Chase instead. "What's he talking about?"

"No," Chase said coolly. "Let him tell it to you himself – _if_ he wants to."

"_If _he…" Wilson sounded almost offended. "How can you stick up for him? He- he _punched _you!"

Chase snorted. "Yeah, I think we're all squared away on that now."

"Although I probably still owe you an apology," House pointed out.

"Which I'm not holding my breath for."

House nodded approvingly. "Smart kid."

Wilson watched their easy back-and-forth and felt a little jealous – it was usually so hard for House to handle even the most meaningless moments of human connection, but here he was, trying to make peace, practically apologizing, even stealing a quick look to make sure the kid understood him… Which he did. _That's not fair, _Wilson thought, **_I'm _**_the only one who speaks Housinese!_

"Now," said House, "If you two are satisfied that I'm in my right mind, go get me the rest of my team."

"Your team?" For some reason, Cuddy looked like she was about to cry. "If that's what you want… Of course." She turned to go, and Wilson thought fast. With her weak like this, maybe now was the time to throw himself on her mercy (and her lawyers) and try to avert the disaster that was nearly upon them.

"Wait," he said. "Guys… I talked to Tritter. Told him I wouldn't testify."

House only looked bored, but Chase jumped on it. "And?"

"And… he said it wouldn't matter. Said he'd use my previous statement, and throw us _both _in jail."

"Then that was useful."

Cuddy, predictably, saw hope. "Don't you think a good lawyer could do something with this? Get that statement discounted somehow? All the poor dying patients you had to go save, blah blah blah, you'd have said _anything _to get your practice back…" She turned suddenly to face him full on. "But you have to make up your mind, Wilson. If you cancel the deal, House risks jail and he won't get the treatment he needs for his huge, _huge_ addiction. On the other hand, if you stick to the story you told Tritter, he's got no intention of agreeing to rehab and he is _definitely _going to jail." She took a deep breath. "Before you take back your statement, you need to be sure: do you stand with House, or not?"

Just a minute ago, it seemed, they had been hitting the bars together and checking out skateboards. And now…

Right or wrong, this had to be undone. He nodded. "Whatever you need me to say."

Cuddy put a finger in his face. "I will call a lawyer. _None of you make a single move without first asking me_!" She marched out.

House made a big show of watching her butt, then said to Wilson: "I _told _you she was a mean mommy!"

Wilson's jaw dropped. His best friend was sitting there covered in actual physical _wounds _because he, Wilson, wouldn't prescribe him the medication he needed. He was facing jail because Wilson hadn't managed to muster up the loyalty that his poor abused minions had shown even under pressure. He was in danger of losing everything that made his life bearable, and still, he joked. Why? Either to show that he'd somehow already forgiven Wilson his appalling conduct… or because, loudly-trumpeted sense of entitlement notwithstanding, betrayal was really no more than he expected.

Wilson felt very sick all of a sudden. His stomach knotted and his eyes burned, so before he embarrassed himself by crying or puking, he turned and hurried out of the office.

"She's not _that _mean!" House called after him, then turned to Chase. "Go get the others. Let's get to work."

* * *

TBC. 

Next chapter will have some more… erm, creative therapy. Possibly a little angst as well. Possibly a little Tritter. Talk to me!


	3. Chapter 3

Some time later, having puzzled House's epiphany through to the end, the team was all piled into Abigail's room trying to convince her that being tall wasn't really such a bad fate. Cameron had seated herself on the girl's bed. Foreman was standing awkwardly off to one side, Chase to the other, and House was sitting on the floor. He said this was because it was rude to tower over people just because they were tiny, but Chase knew better. He had decided that the bed and chairs were too comfortable, and that shifting against the hard ground might provide a welcome distraction from his other problems. 

They were getting nowhere with the girl, so abruptly House turned his attention to the mother. "I like you," he declared.

"You have nice eyes," she snapped back, as if it were a challenge of some kind.

"But you're short." He grinned. "See? I say that with impunity, because you can't reach to kick me in the jewels."

She crossed her arms, not bothering to point out that he was currently sitting on the floor and thus well in range. "No. But I'm just about the right height to _headbutt _you in the jewels… and then run away. And you couldn't catch me." Her eyes were narrowed, but a smile was fighting its way out.

"Too bad. Because if I did… You know what they say about size," he said, low and inviting. He looked her up and down, licking his lips. "It's how you use it."

She had to bend down to be eye level with him. "You should be _happy_ about my size – if I was any bigger, you wouldn't be able to carry me over the threshold."

He chuckled. "I promise you my one-legged ravaging skills are in good working order."

"Mo-_omm_!" Abigail wailed, purple with embarrassment.

She winced and started to straighten up, but House hooked her with his cane. "Wait. Cmere." He beckoned her closer, and she reluctantly, suspiciously, put her ear by his lips.

"That was fun," he said quietly. "But maybe one person in a hundred could've got it right. The other ninety-nine times, I got hurt. How about you?" She swallowed. She pulled away and looked down at him, lips pressed together. "Yes," he said aloud, "It's who you are and you love it and you're right to… but is it really what you'd choose for your daughter?"

She looked thoughtful, and didn't answer.

So House dragged himself to his feet, giving himself a ruthless squeeze on the forearm as he straightened. "You two small people figure it out on your own," he said. "Our work here is done. Let's go, gang. It's Christmas Eve. Go wrap presents."

He limped off before anyone could wish him a merry Christmas. Once he was gone, Cameron turned to the others as they filed out of the patient's room. "It's Christmas Eve, and we all obviously missed whatever we were supposed to be doing. Do you want to go get dinner?"

Foreman shrugged. "Why not. Chase?"

He hesitated. "Actually… House said he wanted to see me first. You guys go ahead… I'll meet you. Call me and say where."

* * *

Once he had gone, Cameron and Foreman looked at each other. "All right, that was weird," Foreman finally said. "Should I suggest it or will you?"

"No," Cameron protested, "It's none of our business…"

"Don't tell me you're not curious. Cuddy will _kill _him if he gives pills. On the other hand, _House _will kill him if he doesn't."

"Or House will beg, and Chase will feel so bad he kills _himself_." She bit her lip. "Okay. We need to get our coats and everything anyway. If we should happen to hear something through the glass…"

They tiptoed into the conference room and didn't turn on the lights. The blinds that separated House's office had been closed, but they crept up to the glass anyway and put their ears close.

"-this soon," Chase was saying.

"How about we let _me _say when it's too soon," House countered. "I need something to take the edge off, and if I keep screwing with the cuts on my arm they're not going to heal right. "

A tiny pause.

"See?" Chase demanded. "You flinched. I saw that. I barely _touched _it and you flinched."

"I did not-"

"House." Chase's sigh could be heard even through the door, but then he lowered his voice and they had to strain to make it out. "You're a mess. _That _needs to heal right too. I'm not going to touch you. Period."

"… Period, _period_. Also known as ellipses. Now finish your sentence. You're not going to touch me… in a box? Not gonna touch me with a fox? Do _you_ like green-"

Chase's voice was suddenly firm and cold. "Fine. C'mere."

"_Yes_," House congratulated himself. Shadows shifted as he moved through the room...

Foreman and Cameron exchanged glances. "What the hell is going on?" he whispered. She gave him an exaggerated shrug and mouthed _No idea._ He lowered his voice even further and breathed, "We should get out of here." All of a sudden the blinds parted a little – House had brushed them with his jacket as he walked by. If they crouched down, there would be a place to peek in. Without looking at each other, because they both worried that the other might call a halt, they knelt on the ground and put their heads near the spyhole.

* * *

Chase was looking around thoughtfully. "Take off your shirt, and give me your belt," he said at last. "We'll go up across your shoulders this time. You can sit, if you like."

House pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards. "This work?"

"Yep, perfect." He doubled up the belt and brushed the leather gently over House's upper back. "We'll start you slow."

Cameron couldn't look away. "Oh, no," she whispered. "He's not going to…"

"Looks like it," Foreman whispered back. He smiled and shook his head. "We should have known – after all the crap we gave him for recognizing that dominatrix…"

The belt was making noise now, a soft _thwack _with every stroke. It didn't seem to be hurting him. In fact, he'd folded his arms over the back of his chair and pillowed his head as if he intended to take a snooze.

"It looks… relaxing," Cameron observed, but soon Chase paused and shifted his grip.

"You ready?"

House nodded.

Chase wound up and hit him hard, and he hissed, tensing. When he settled, Chase hit him again, on the other side. "Is that good?" When House nodded again, he continued.

Cameron watched, mesmerized, as House's back went from a sickly pale, to blotchy, to a glowing red. Every time he breathed _Mmn_ or his shoulders twitched she winced for him, and finally whispered to Foreman, "_That_ has to be painful."

"I don't think so. I think he's used to it."

As if reading their minds, Chase finally stopped and tossed the belt on the desk. He lay his hands over House's burning shoulderblades. "If you want, I can unfold it and give you a few that'll really sting," he offered. "How are you?"

House made a noise that could only be called _purr _and shifted under the hands. "S'nice," he answered groggily. "Go ahead, give me a couple that will last."

"Whatever you say." Chase shook out the belt and backed off a step so he would have room to swing it. "This is going to hurt."

"I'll be fine."

"If you say so."

The belt cut the air with an audible _swish _this time, and spat against House's skin so sharply that Cameron gasped aloud and jumped. House took it about as well as she did; he gasped too, shoulders flexing against the pain, foot tapping rapidly against the floor…

But after a moment he stilled to show that he was ready to continue. He took the second lash with just a slight jerk, then ordered, "Harder."

Cameron looked horrified, but Foreman just rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

Chase gave him half a dozen or so, then put the belt down. "My aim's not good enough," he explained. "Soon I'm going to accidentally hit the same spot twice, and then you're going to get up and kick my ass."

House laughed, rocking in his chair. "Cmon – just a little more."

So Chase walked up to him, and without warning slapped one hand over his mouth and slammed the other, open-handed, over his fresh welts.

House arched and roared like a wounded animal. He hung onto his head with both hands, and as soon as Chase let go of his mouth began repeating "Ow, _ow _ow ow, OW! Ow, _ow_." He didn't seem mad, though, so when he turned to Chase to glare with watering eyes, Chase tapped his own lips as though in warning. House hid his face in his elbow just in time – Chase reared back and slapped him again, and his shriek would definitely have been loud enough to draw attention if he hadn't muffled it.

Cameron stared at the handprints glowing white against the bright red, wanting more than anything to barge in and give him a hug. Foreman seemed to realize this; he grabbed her arm and shook his head. "He's fine," he whispered. "Look at him."

She looked again, and already he looked better. He had slumped back down, groaning happily, as if the fading of the sting was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Chase just waited until he was ready to stand up, then handed him his belt and said casually, "You're welcome. Got plans for tonight?"

"Nope. You?"

"I'm meeting Foreman and Cameron for dinner." He checked his watch. "I'm so late, God knows what they're going to think. Actually… I'd better call them, find out where they are." He took out his phone and started to dial.

Cameron and Foreman looked at each other in horror – their phones were on. And not set to vibrate. "Run," she whispered.

* * *

TBC. 

Couldn't resist letting Cameron and Foreman get a peek.

**Rants and Responses: **

**Dru**: Thanks! _House Whisperer_?! Oh man I'm cracking up, at work, so that's bad.

**Alex**: Thanks for taking the time to write such an involved response. I think you're absolutely right on some points, but I have to disagree with you on others. I'm speaking from experience – lots – so while my writing obviously doesn't reflect _everyone's_ experience with impact play, it's certainly true for some people. At least one :o)

I know that so far the story doesn't quite count as BDSM because, as you said, they're doing it as means to an end rather than because they actually want to. I labeled the story as BDSM and slash to warn away people who get freaked out by guys touching guys or people spanking one another. But yeah, if you're looking for a story about a loving, stable relationship between a top and a bottom, this won't be it.

I also think you're right that House would react very poorly to an attempt at a D/s scene. I didn't ask him to count as a form of humiliation, though, but rather as a way to participate and keep in focus how far he's come and how far is left to go. Having no knowledge of the planned duration of a beating is, to me at least, a terrifying thing when you're dealing with a top who's new to you.

I agree that Chase seems to be ignorant of the emotional complexities of a kinky relationship. However, he claims some experience in _Love Hurts _(season 1). And in _Distractions _(season 2) when a burn victim has a random unexplained orgasm, he's the one who brings up tattoo pain translating into pleasure because of the endorphin release. So I don't think Chase is too OOC here. And House? Please. He broke his hand to temporarily drown out his pain. He cut himself. And the self-injury wasn't just a mistake induced by hurting out of his mind – afterwards he _still _seemed to think it was a good idea. Both times, he asked that the wounds not be dressed properly so that he would have the option of aggravating them later. _You _might think a caning wouldn't help him, but I think _he _would try it. As for me, I can tell you it helped me eclipse a stress fracture – after the scene I sat around all blissed out for almost half an hour before I even realized my shin had been silent that whole time.

Of course it came back. It wasn't a miracle cure, but it _was _a temporary relief from the pain that had had me climbing up the walls (figuratively. I couldn't even manage stairs). It was a nice change of pace. It was a challenge. It was fun. And the element of control is huge – knowing how much more you have coming, and being able to stop it if you need to, beats the hell out of constant, deep, relentless pain you can't do anything about.

Again, thanks for your comments. I don't mean to disparage your views on BDSM, I'm just explaining my own.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm fascinated with how different Christmas Eve would have been for everyone...

Long chapter, dunno why it came out that way.

* * *

"Dr. House!" 

He looked around, then down. "Oh, there you are. Hi."

Her short legs matched stride with his limp easily as he headed towards the elevator. "Sorry to bother you ... just tell me once more: is my daughter going to be all right? Honestly."

Her gaze was fierce, even though he needed to look down to meet it. "No bother. She should be fine, as long as the surgery goes okay - and there's no reason it shouldn't."

They stood in silence til the elevator came. When the doors opened, he stepped in and she said, "Isn't that a bad idea in a hospital? Doesn't it spread a lot of diseases?"

"What?"

She stepped in with him just before the doors closed, and pointed up at the ceiling. "Mistletoe."

"Ah." Neither of them pushed a button, and the elevator just waited. "Isn't it supposed to be bad luck to stand under this stuff and not kiss?" he asked at last. "Or is that just for us tall folk?"

She smiled. "I think that one's universal."

"In that case..." He went down carefully on one knee, and she stepped close. She looked wary, as if she expected him to laugh or give her a brotherly peck on the cheek or some other new, horrifying form of rejection she hadn't yet encountered.

She wasn't kept in suspense long, though: he locked his lips over hers without hesitation, and slid a hand up into her hair.

Her fingers were small and light on his jaw, but her kiss was all confidence and he went where she led him – long and slow and lots of tongue.

Afterwards they made shy eye contact for a moment, and then he struggled to his feet.

"So, what flavor cripple are you?" she breezed.

He grinned – if she hadn't said something offensive to break the mood, he would have. "A few years ago surgeons took out a chunk of my thigh muscle about as big as you." He blinked. "What's so funny?"

"Well… I was _going _to say: about as big as me? Great, that means there should be just enough room for me to get into your pants… but then I decided that would be insensitive."

House's first thought was that no amount of pain was going to rob him of the bizarre experience of nailing a dwarf on Christmas Eve, but then he winced. Without Wilson breathing down his neck he was going to have to be his own conscience for a while… and this, fun as it would be, was a huge ethical no-no.

He heaved a sigh. "Why couldn't we have met someplace else? A bar… the circus… anywhere…"

She took it in stride. "If we'd met at the circus, then maybe _I'd _be on the job and _I'd _have to say no."

They both laughed, and then, before things could get any more out of hand, he hit the Door Open button. "It's Christmas. Go on, go be with the little one."

"Soon to be _big one_," she corrected, stepping out of the elevator. "We decided to take the growth hormone."

"I knew you would."

"Oh, bullshit."

"I did!" he called as the doors started closing. "Because only a huge idiot would disagree with me, and you obviously don't qualify as a _huge _anything!"

* * *

A moment later House was limping out of the elevator downstairs, wincing at the sight in his peripheral vision: Cuddy was making a beeline for him and calling his name. How could she have found out so quickly?

"House - you can't outrun me!" She reached the door just before he did, and blocked his way.

He tried to stop her lecture before it started. "She started it. It was her idea!"

Cuddy frowned. "Who started what?"

"Oh. Never mind." He tried to look innocent. "So what did you want, then?"

"I just... First of all, I _am _going to get to the bottom of that. But anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. You didn't hold Abigail hostage for your pills... I was worried you were going to."

"If her mother wasn't so adorable I would have." House tried to step around her. "Can I go now?"

"Why? In a hurry to go cut yourself again?" She sighed. "House, it's Christmas. Wilson was looking for you, everyone's worried... Listen. I want you to be able to sleep tonight, but I need you at your best tomorrow - not stoned out of your mind. So, here: two pills."

He stared at the Vicodin in her hand, not quite able to look up at her. "Tomorrow? That's when... the deal expires." He took a deep breath. "I'm not taking it."

"I know. And I've decided I don't want you to. It'd be bad enough to lose you to a rehab facility for two months, but I've just been advised that Tritter is full of shit – the DA can't guarantee the safety of your medical license. Once you plead guilty, even if he doesn't go out of his way to turn you in, the board can still-"

He took the pills from her and jiggled them in his hand. "So now you're willing to let my rampant drug use run unchecked?"

"Call me soft if you want." She shook her head helplessly. "I won't put you through any more pain. I do want tabs on what you're taking, though, so as of now Wilson is off duty and _I_ will write your prescriptions. _After,_" she added, before he could spontaneously combust with gratitude, "We somehow clear up this mess you've gotten yourself into."

House swallowed hard as the brief flash of hope faded away. "But he's not going to just let it go, not now that he knows some of those scrips were forged. Allegedly."

"Not without some concessions, no. You're going to have to apologize to him. You might end up paying fines, picking up trash by the highway, I don't know what. Nothing that endangers your freedom or your practice."

"_Or my meds," _he added firmly. "I also won't go to a shrink. I won't go to group meetings. And I won't sleep with Tritter, if that's what he's after. None of that is negotiable." He cocked his head. "Unless Tritter is secretly a woman. Then maybe we could talk."

She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him. "This is serious! A lot of people are going out on a limb for you. I called… don't go crazy… I called Stacy."

"You _what_?"

"We need someone who cares what happens to you, and who is a lawyer. That list consists of exactly one person, and if you're afraid to deal with her, that's just too bad! Go get some sleep. You look like crap." She turned to go, then: "Oh! I meant to tell you: Abigail just agreed to the growth hormone."

"I already heard. Good night."

She looked somewhat puzzled but let him go.

* * *

House considered gulping down the pills before he even left the hospital, then decided he would rather enjoy them in the comfort of his own home than waste them on the commute. 

The whole way home, he pictured chewing up both pills and washing them down with a good bit of liquor. It would be a last hurrah before tomorrow, just in case things didn't go well and he ended up in jail… or, worse, rehab. When he got home he checked himself out in the hallway mirror and winced at his own reflection - he looked pretty awful. Sweating despite the cold, holding his stomach, grimacing with every step and literally shaking with the anticipation of how good it was going to feel to get it all to stop.

His hand was already in his pocket when he changed his mind. Why nod off in the hallway here like a homeless junkie? Why not shower - because he _was _filthy - change the ruined bandages on his forearm, and then sit down for a nice Christmas meal of Vicodin and Chinese food?

He looked at the pills. Seeing them helped.

He dragged himself slowly to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He put his prize on the sink, in easy reach, and took his clothes off. He took the last of the anti-emetic Chase had brought him, so that he wouldn't spoil the wonderful evening he had planned by puking up his Vicodin as soon as he took them. While he waited for the water to get hot he turned around and peeked at his back in the mirror. The upper part was clean except for a few little belt marks, but his ass was a real mess, covered in painful ridges he could feel with his fingers. At least... he guessed they were painful. The leg made it hard to notice.

When he got in the shower, the hot water stung so badly that he gasped and shielded his ass with both hands, then laughed at himself for being such a baby.

Two minutes later he was used to the water. Standing was getting too miserable, but he didn't want to leave the warm quite yet because it was a nice change from the shivering, so o he closed the drain and let the bath fill up. Sitting down produced an angry throbbing from his welts, and he was amazed all over again that Chase had had such violence in him. Not that it was a bad thing.

He sat in the tub, rubbing his leg and trying not to think about tomorrow, Fortunately, since long achy baths were nothing new to him, he had a bottle under the bathroom sink that he could reach with his cane without even getting out of the water.

An hour later (he was still in the tub), his phone rang. He wasn't sure who would be calling him on Christmas Eve, but figured it was probably important, so he fumbled around his heap of clothes until he found it and flipped it open. "What?"

"House?"

"Chase? What's up - is our fake dwarf okay? Somebody whisk her back up to the North Pole or something?"

The voice on the other end went all muffled: "He wants to know if it's about the patient!"

Raucous squealing and laughing in the background. Ah. The kiddies had apparently gone drinking. House figured it out on his own even before a shrill, slurred voice demanded "Gimme the phone!" and then got on to complain, "House, it's Cameron, you _can't _be a _grouch _tonight, it's Chrissmseeve! You have to be happy!"

"I _was _happy - until you called. Put someone else on."

"He wantsa talk t'someone else-"

"Gimme-"

"No- gim- hey-"

"House?" someone spoke properly into the phone. "It's Chase again."

"Really?" House gasped. "I thought Foreman was the Australian one. What do you want?"

"We just want to say: Merry Christmas! _And that's all!_"

House heard a scuffle, screeching from Cameron, Foreman demanding the phone, and then a sound suspiciously like someone being pushed from his stool. Foreman seemed to have won. "House? "

"Who the hell else would it be?"

"Look, as you may or may not realize, we're all out getting toasted. And wewere all just wondering whether you'd like to come out and have a drink with us."

"No we're not!" Chase shouted from the background. "I _told _you he won't want to! He's just going to laugh at you."

House did laugh, but not at Foreman. _Looks like little Robbie doesn't want to share his toys. _"Nope... I don't drink."

"You... don't sound sober to me," Foreman pointed out.

"Aren't you the clever one. Do a couple of shots for me. I'll return the favor."

"Okay." Foreman wasn't too surprised to have been turned down. "Good luck tomorrow."

"We love you, House!" Cameron called drunkenly in the background.

"No we don't," Chase protested. "That's sick!"

"Night, kids." House hung up, laughed a little, and had another drink.

* * *

He finally ordered himself out of the bath, put on sweats and a t-shirt, and set himself up on the couch with the firm intention of not needing to get up again, ever, for any reason. He had food, drinks, pills, the remote, his phone, some work, some porn, a box of tissues, a scalpel and a couple of bandaids... 

He was warm and relaxed and all set to go – it was Vicodin time. He was amazed that he'd waited as long as he had. He reached out...

And hesitated again. Those two pills were all that stood between him and hell. Once he took them, that was it. While feeling better right now would be nice... weigh it against the horror of the last forty-eight hours: trapped, helpless, tortured with no hope of relief...

He grit his teeth and reached past the pills for the remote. Distraction time. If TV failed him there was always the knife... And if he really, _really _couldn't take it, _then_ there were the pills. If he turned desperate.

A few minutes of crappy TV later, he thought he was going to make it. He might not be able to get to sleep, but other than that, he could manage. After some time with hardly any pills and then two days with none at all, it seemed that the Vicodin's chokehold on his body was finally beginning to weaken. It had been a while since the anti-emetic, and yet his aching stomach had not rejected his Chinese food. The alcohol had fuzzed the edges of his headache. And sitting under a blanket after a hot bath, he found he was only quaking just a little.

He would still be feeling ill all week, but it wasn't going to get any worse. In fact, soon the withdrawal would start getting better.

The pain, on the other hand... He could sit still and let it suffocate him, or he could get up and have every single inch of movement make him want to scream. Not so appealing, either option. The pills? _Not yet, _he told himself, _It gets worse and you know it. _The knife looked like a better and better idea every second... but it was unhealthy and a mess, too a high price for such a small distraction. Where was Chase when you needed him?

Someone banged on the door and House jumped. "Chase?"

A long silence outside. "No, it's- It's me. Wilson."

"Should've known the knock. It's okay - you can come in."

* * *

Wilson came in self-consciously, offered a tentative smile. "Hi." 

"Hi."

He was looking over everything House had laid out. "Well. Feeling a little hedonistic today, are we?"

"That's me, pleasure all day and night, in all ways shapes and forms." Long practice let House toss it off without a shred of bitterness showing through. If he could manage to play nice and not pick a fight, then Wilson might stick around and distract him for a little bit.

But then Wilson froze. "House: pills?" he accused, pointing.

A surge of terror took House's breath away, and he lunged for them. "Didn't take 'em yet," he explained, relaxing once the precious, precious Vicodin was safe in his hand.

"Oh. So you're… feeling okay?"

"Do I look like I'm feeling okay?"

"Then why…?"

House clutched them tighter, staring at his fist. "Because once I take them," he explained, "I have no more. And then, no matter how bad it gets, there's nothing I can do about it."

There was a long silence. Wilson, who prided himself on not running away from his patients' suffering, found himself staring at the wall. It was one thing to see suffering and try to relieve it... but how did you sit and look calmly at pain you had _caused_?

House's breathing was labored as he hauled his leg up across the couch so that Wilson couldn't sit next to him. "So what are you… doing here? Planning to, I don't know, sing me a Christmas carol?"

"Take them," Wilson said softly. "You _need_ pain medication, that's why we prescribe it."

That was all it took for House's frayed nerves to snap. "Don't tell me what I _need _and don't _need_!" he exploded. "You're not my boss, or my wife, or my parents! I don't know why you think you have these special _rights _over me – because you _don't_."

"Don't say that," he said wearily. "House come on, we're... I mean, _best friends _doesn't even cover it..."

"It does now," House informed him. "So be happy. No more taking liberties, stealing your prescription pad, any of that. I'll behave - you can be my friend without worrying that I'm going to put you in any more awkward positions."

Wilson could hardly believe it. "You- You're... breaking up with me?"

"What?" House reacted to the word choice, even though he knew it was exactly what he meant. "Don't be such a drama queen. I said I still want us to be friends…"

"You're breaking up with me," he repeated, dazed. "Just friends... arm's length... or, in your world, twenty arms' length..." He could hardly get the words out. "House... I'm sorry – I'm _so _sorry. Please don't do this to me."

"Don't apologize, it's as much my fault as yours," House pointed out. "I should have asked for a new prescribing as soon as you didn't believe me that the ketamine was wearing off. I should have made a deal with that cop instead of asking you to risk your career for me. Of course you wouldn't do that; you'd be an idiot if you did."

"No. Please, House. Please – I should have. That's what friends-"

"The way we were was stupid and dangerous - for both of us. Let's be clear: from now on, my pain management is none of your business. Neither is my pain. If I pop twenty pills in the course of an evening, or if you see me have a hard time moving around, you will tactfully ignore it like all the other guys in my poker game. Okay?" Wilson was just shaking his head, so he heaved a sigh and assured: "You can still hang out here and I'm still going to eat all your lunches. Nothing changes."

"In other words, _everything _changes."

"If you don't like it, there's the door." There was a long silence. House stared at him until he made eye contact. "But if it's okay with you, then you can stay and help me with this Chinese food."

"Do you… want me to stay?" Wilson hated himself for sounding so pathetic, but he had been floored by this huge, unexpected and totally devastating development. After everything they'd been through, all the years and fights and marriages and secrets… now, _that _quickly, in the blink of an eye… House was dumping him.

House didn't say yes, and in fact made a dismissive sort of gesture with his hand, but he was nodding.

"Then… I'll stay. I have to use your bathroom. D'you need anything while I'm up?"

House shook his head and pretended to be engrossed in the muted TV.

Wilson took a moment to compose himself in the bathroom. When he came back out, he discovered that although he was still being ignored, food and a fork had been pushed towards where he was sitting.

Mixed signals. He could deal with that. He had, in fact, plenty of practice nursing relationships through crises of this nature... the struggle to find a comfortable distance, the long mutual journey towards apologies, and then, eventually, the return of trust.

(And _then, _eventually, a repetition of the original betrayal and an eventual divorce... but he told himself to be positive for a change.)

"One of my patients died tonight," he said quietly, to break the ice.

"Kid?"

"Old guy. Zebalusky. He had a wife..."

"Sorry. _My _patient's going to live," House said. "I think I'm beating you by, what? Like a million? Well... maybe nine hudred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine and a half. The dwarf chick's too tiny to count as a whole person."

"That's very sensitive of you. Although, for all your ribbing, I heard you and the mother managed to see eye to eye okay..."

He'd meant to just tease a little on an innocuous subject, but House froze. "How'd you hear that?"

"Hear what? Oh my God... did something actually _happen_?"

House leered and obliged him with a litany of his very dirtiest innuendos. Soon they were both laughing, and for a moment, Wilson could almost believe that they were okay... or at least that they were someday going to be.

But he decided to wait til after tomorrow, once they knew for sure whether House was going to dodge jail or not, before asking.

* * *

TBC. 

Next chapter: Tritter doesn't give ground easily, the ducklings are fairly awkward with one another, Chase finds himself feeling protective, and Wilson tries to get up the nerve to ask questions.

Thanks muchly to everyone who's reviewed so far!


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, House slapped his alarm clock into silence and held his breath, listening to his body.

Leg: unbearable. Not worth even trying to move it, not an inch.

Head: pounding. Squinting his eyes shut would help for now, but he needed something to silence it for real, and fast.

Stomach: tossing, cramping, growling. He tried burping, and though it didn't help much, it did give him a clue as to what was wrong – the foul taste he brought up meant that part of this nightmare was just a hangover.

Some water would help with that. Except he couldn't get up to _get _water; there was no way the leg would cooperate.

Some Vicodin would help with _that_… And he knew he did still have two pills. He could take one, allow himself at least to get out of bed, and leave the other one for just in case.

He turned towards his nightstand, prayed that he'd remembered to set them there right in reach, and opened his eyes.

The pills were there, and so was a tall glass of water. A note had been propped up against it: _Take them. –W _

" Wilson, I hate you," he muttered. He swallowed a pill and then as much of the water as he figured he could keep down. He lay back and waited for it to kick in.

* * *

House looked much better when he limped into the hospital an hour later. Cuddy corralled him into her office, straightened his shirt, flicked a bit of fluff from his stubble. "We're all ready to go," she said, not meeting his eyes. "We've got Tritter in a conference room and Stacy waiting in the wings. You're going to go in there, look contrite, and _not say a word _while she does her thing. Is that clear?"

He frowned. "You don't actually expect me to let-"

"She said to remind you that she knew the guy in Baltimore was retiring in three weeks. She says she's done her homework this time, too."

"She works fast."

"She's been up all night with this, House. Don't screw it up, and don't get sidetracked. You can profess your undying love for her later. Here." Cuddy put a pill in his hand and led him out the door.

House knew that the less miserable he felt, the less likely he would be to blow this meeting, so he took the Vicodin straight away instead of adding it to his emergency stash. He let himself be ushered into a room with a small round conference table, and did his best not to look at the man who was already seated there. If he looked, he would think of a wiseass comment to make. If he thought of one, he would have to say it aloud. And then Cuddy would kill him.

The door opened a moment later and House didn't even have to turn around to recognize the sigh. "Morning, gentlemen."

Stacy's voice was a little hoarse – the way it got after she'd been up way past her bedtime. House cleared his throat. "Should we call for some coffee?"

"I'm fine, Greg."

Tritter was shaking his head. "Always a chemical solution. You sure you don't want to offer her some speed, too?"

"Says the man with the nicotine gum."

"Greg!" Stacy snapped, and he fell silent. She walked around the table and shook hands with Tritter, who took his time rising. "Detective," she said politely. "I'm Stacy Warner. I'm an attorney. We thought it best that Dr. House's interests be represented by someone other than Dr. House at this time."

"Stacy Warner," he repeated thoughtfully. They both sat down.

"I've been told you like to check up on people very thoroughly; let me save you the time," she said briskly. "There's currently no personal relationship between Dr. House and me. There was one several years ago, which ended after I made the medical decision that compromised his mobility. I've got no knowledge of Dr. House's alleged drug issues of late beyond what I was told by Lisa Cuddy last night, and feel free to go digging but you won't find any skeletons in my closet. So. Is there anything else you think you might need to know before we start?"

There was a long silence. He sized her up. "Just one thing," he said at last, with a small smile. "Do you think that if you can get him out of this he'll forgive you?"

She only hesitated a second. "Not really, no."

"But this _is _personal for you," he said. It wasn't really a question.

"It's personal for all of us, Detective. Especially you." Her voice turned almost gentle. "You haven't got a legal leg to stand on, and you know it." She let a moment pass before elaborating: "Without the statement you coerced from Dr. Wilson… and I can guarantee you won't have that statement; a first-year law student could see to that… you've got nothing. Except, actually, several potential lawsuits. I watched the security footage: you've been poking around the hospital pharmacy. You've been flashing your badge and demanding the log book when you don't even have a warrant. You've inflicted significant financial and psychological damage on a whole lot of innocent people… Do you have any idea how bad it's going to look when cancer patients – _children _– explain that their care was compromised because of your harassment?"

There was a long silence. "Whew," House laughed at last. "And I thought she busted _my _balls!"

"Greg, shut up," Stacy ordered without looking. "My point, Detective, is that you have as much an interest in handling this quietly as we do. The hospital doesn't need the bad publicity, Dr. House doesn't need the persecution, and you don't need the lawsuits. So, let's hear it: what exactly do you want?"

"He needs help. I want him in rehab."

Stacy didn't miss a beat. "Outpatient."

House's eyes widened, but Tritter shook his head and the crisis was averted. "No. He needs to be somewhere… with structure. Outpatient's not good enough."

"Of course it's not," Stacy said pleasantly, nodding. "You don't care about the drug use, you just want to see him subjected to somebody's authority for a change. Isn't that right, Detective?"

Tritter got up from his char and walked around to stand behind House. He bent down and said quietly, close to his ear: "I want to see that he doesn't get away with it."

House patted his pockets and retrieved a box of Tic-Tacs. "Here – that gum's not doing you any favors. The smoking was probably better."

This time Stacy silenced him with just a glare and then said, "Detective, let me make you a proposal..."

* * *

When the doors finally opened, Stacy and Tritter strode out side by side and headed down the corridor. Cuddy and Wilson, who had been hovering nearby like parents of a child in surgery, jumped towards them at once. "Questions can wait, please," Stacy said, obviously in a hurry before anyone changed their minds. 

Tritter paused. "We're on our way to the DA," he explained, "To inform him that I need 30 days to wrap up my investigation of Dr. House… at which time, if no concrete evidence that he's abusing his prescriptions presents itself, I will conclude that the case is a waste of resources and I will not be pursuing it further."

Cuddy stared after them as they continued on, but Wilson rushed into the conference room. "So, congratulations – that's great!"

"Not really," House said, drumming his fingers on the table. "The deal is, he's going to come here to the hospital every day for the next month, and drug test me."

Wilson froze. "No Vicodin?"

"No Vicodin?" House snorted. "Might as well say no air. No, I'm allowed to test positive for _reasonable _doses… but nowhere in the ballpark of what I've been taking. Translates to about six or eight pills a day. Maybe ten, if I'm careful with the timing."

"Six… a _day_?" Wilson repeated incredulously. "You sure you don't mean six an _hour_? Or six _bottles_? House, you know you can't do that."

"I didn't have a _choice_!" That wasn't entirely true – he could have protested the impossibly low number. He would have, too, except Tritter explained: _That's what I'm told is your usual dosage…unless Dr. Chase was…**lying **to me…_ and then House considered himself trapped. When you had someone kiss your ass, he thought, you assumed a level of responsibility towards them. Like the way you'd keep bullies away from your little brother, because giving him wedgies was nobody's business but yours. He'd waved his okay to Chase's fantastically low estimate without a word, and forced himself to ignore the knowing smile on Tritter's face. "The _plan _is fine – it's just that the dosage is no good. Doesn't really matter, though," he assured Wilson. "Cuddy'll write me a scrip so I can take whatever I need… she _better… _and I'll just find some way to test clean anyway. There are a thousand ways to fudge a tox screen. It'll be a pain in my ass but I'll be fine."

"House, you're… going to have to see him… every day," Wilson reminded him slowly.

"I know. He figures I'll be humiliated to have to pee in front of people or something… but little does he know," House added, looking up over his shoulder to smirk for maximum effect, "That Greg Junior is much more impressive than the small and chafed piece of equipment _he's _been carrying around. I've got no problems showing him off. It's fine."

Wilson's first thought was, _How many years have I known you? This will **not **be fine, and you need to talk about it, _but at the last second he forced himself not to push. Disregarding the boundaries House had set would backfire. So he just heaved a sigh and said: "Well, I hope that uncivilized behavior and a foul mouth aren't going to void the agreement. Because if so…"

"Nope," House said cheerfully, "We specifically agreed to the whole sticks-and-stones approach. He's got to ignore my charming personality… _and _I don't ever have to apologize for the thermometer." House stood up and headed out of the room. To forestall any attempt at meaningful conversation, he added: "He finally told me the reading, though. I was right – normal. No infection."

* * *

House thought for a while and finally decided that an email would be best – an email to the whole team. Less pathetic that way. 

_Guys – Meeting's over. Stacy got rid of the cop. I've got daily drug screens for the next month, but after that the case will be officially closed. So just to warn you: for the next 30 days I will be in severe pain… which means YOU will be in severe pain. I'll make sure Cuddy finds good cases to keep us busy, and I'll make sure we're assigned the hottest possible nurses to interact with (Cameron, you've got Chase for eye candy, so quit complaining). Other than that, there's not much I can do. Beware. _

- _House _

House sat around wondering whether his telepathic signals had been received. Two hours later, he had his answer: the phone rang.

He picked up on just the second ring. "Hey, Chase – what's up."

"Hi. I got your email. You almost never email us…"

"I thought it would be inconsiderate to call you guys at home on Christmas," House explained. "But obviously _some _people are not so thoughtful…"

Chase laughed. "I'm not calling you at home, House. This is your office number."

"Oh. Right. Well, Cuddy said to keep you guys posted. So now you're posted, so that's all."

"Okay. Congratulations on not going to jail… and, you know, if there's any way I can help you… just let me know."

"Actually there is," House answered at once. There was no point in being coy. His first drug test would be Monday, and since he planned to take a respectable amount of Vicodin tonight and tomorrow, he'd need to cut himself off starting Sunday evening to make sure he beat it. That meant he'd be useless at work on Monday, unless… "Come in half an hour early Monday morning, all right? Need a partner in crime. I'm going to be building a nuclear warhead."

"Uh… okay. See you then."

* * *

TBC 

Sorry, the Wilson angst and the awkward ducklings are going up next chapter, not this one. Also, next chapter has some truly nasty Tritter making the most of his evil powers. I feel like he and House have a lot in common, starting with the knowing-where-to-poke-a-sharp-stick thing…

Take a second to drop a review, will you? It makes me post faster. Last chapter was 300 hits, 3 reviews. Sheesh!! (Dru, L'insomnie des etoiles, Mourningwillow: Thanks – you guys are awesome!)


	6. Chapter 6

Monday morning, House was drumming his fingers on his desk. "You're late. Half an hour early means thirty minutes, not twenty-eight." 

"Terribly sorry; can you ever forgive me?" Chase took off his coat and got the blinds.

House was unbuttoning his shirt. "You sure you don't mind?"

"If I did I would _say _something." Chase smirked. "Like: _stop it, you freak._" House's lips twitched in what was almost a smile, so Chase felt free to add: "Besides, half the hospital probably fantasizes daily about taking a belt to you. I'm living the dream, baby."

Once House had stripped to the waist and stretched his shoulders out, he handed over his belt with a sigh. "We need to be more creative – every drunk father in the universe uses a belt. Don't you have any actual whips and chains at home?" Chase shook his head and ushered him into the chair, not noticing that he looked a little thoughtful.

They started gently, but soon had the doubled-up belt clapping against House's back hard enough to leave marks. "Round your shoulders more," Chase instructed after a bit. "Yeah – it's more even that way. You don't want your shoulderblades sticking out; the strap'll catch on them."

"Mm. I'm ready when you are. Or, feel free to continue that way forever – that's good too."

"'Kay." Chase continued another few minutes, then unfurled the belt and let him have it. He watched House writhe, then subside, and though he was beginning to think it was unnecessary he asked, "Ready?"

House nodded. The belt spat against him and he arched, breathing hard. Eventually he relaxed again, and this time nodded without being asked.

Chase worked him over more thoroughly than last time, covering his back in red marks and even overlapping a few. He murmured _sorry _whenever he did, and this, along with House's grunts and hisses, was the only sound in the room for a while.

Eventually Chase said, "Last one?" and House shot back: "Last _three_." Chase delivered them one after the other and as hard as he could.

In the aftermath House felt mellow enough not to complain when Chase came to rub his shoulders. People rarely tried to surprise him with shoulder massages and when they did he usually shied away. This time, though, he found himself relaxing into it and groaning with pleasure every time one of his welts was pressed or pinched.

"How're you doing?"

"Um. Chase… have you ever considered a career change?"

Chase laughed. "I hope that's not a subtle hint that you're firing me."

"_Ohmm._ Not in a… million… years."

* * *

House had Chase safely out of the way and himself all put together again by the time Tritter arrived. He was seated at his desk, looking dignified and busy, and nodded for the detective to come in. 

Tritter shook his head, and beckoned House outside. Rolling his eyes, House scooped up his cane and got moving. He still _felt _okay, but his good mood was bleeding out at an alarming rate.

"And a good morning to you, sir," he said, flashing a sunny smile.

Tritter managed the rare feat of looking contented and disdainful at the same time. He led House down to one of the squishy couches in the hall and sat next to him. "First we'll get the paperwork out of the way, before moving on to the more… intrusive parts."

Good mood coding. Help. Paddles. Stat. House tried one more time to play nice. "Forms?" he whined. "Boy, you really _are _an evil bastard." 

He was hoping for some harmless taunting in return, something along the lines of _Well I'm the evil bastard who has you by the balls for the next few weeks, so this would be a good time to start kissing my ass._

But no, Tritter played it straight and cold. "I'm going to cross all my _t_'swith this, Dr. House. I'll use official testing procedures and an official testing kit. The form goes first. Show me some identification."

"What?"

"So that there's never any question that I drug tested the wrong person." Tritter's voice dropped. "Now: stop asking questions and start doing what I tell you... or I'll regard it as a delaying tactic and you'll fail automatically."

"Keep your pants on," House said, disgusted. "I'm doing it. Here."

Tritter copied some of the basic information from House's license, wrote some from memory, and demanded answers for the few blanks he didn't know. Then he told him: "Sign here." Then: "Come with me." Once they were alone in the men's room with the door shut behind them, Tritter held out a wrapped plastic cup. "Check this and confirm that it was sealed when you received it."

"Oh, please." House ripped it open without looking at it - the constant litany of orders was getting to him. "You're not going to taint the equipment to make me fail." He rolled his eyes at the ludicrous idea.

"Are you sure? You should _always _suspect everyone of everything - and you'll usually be right."

"Or you're just paranoid. Not everyone takes such a dismal view of human nature, you know." As soon as he'd said it he realized that he was just being argumentative - the certainty that everybody lies was probably one of the few things that he and Tritter saw eye-to-eye on.

The detective stood with his feet apart and arms crossed. "Now, Dr. House: take off your jacket, push your shirt up, and pull your pants and underwear down to your knees."

"Why is there more to this than just: _whip it out and pee in a cup?_" House asked suspiciously. "See, now that you told me to beware of everyone's hidden motives, I have to wonder whether you're just having some fun with me." He could hear himself talking just a little too fast and too high, and he was sure Tritter could hear it too.

"For me to sign off on a sample," was the impassive explanation, "I have to observe collection and be sure you're not adulterating it with anything at the same time. Clothes get in the way and they can conceal adulterants. That's why the rules are very clear on taking them off." Tritter waited a second. "_Now_, Dr. House."

House leaned his cane against the wall slowly and tugged on his sleeve. The movement pulled his clothes against his back, against the belt marks, and he paused. It actually made him smile for a second, to notice how the same exact act of stripping off his jacket could feel so comfortable one minute, with Chase, and then so distasteful and exposing the next. Which begged the question: which _should _you find more difficult - peeing in front of a vengeance-crazed police officer, or being spanked, in a friendly and helpful way, by your young subordinate? Most people would probably-

"Dr. House," Tritter snapped, jarring him out of his thoughts. "You're not going anywhere. Pay attention until I tell you we're through."

House had already tucked his shirt up and unbuckled his belt. "Fine - here I am," he snapped, glaring to prove that he was no longer zoning out. He unzipped quickly, whipped it out, and moved to pick up the cup from the sink he'd rested it on.

Tritter beat him to it and snatched it away. "Oh, no - I told you, House: pants to the knees."

"For God's sake- I don't have _extra pee _in my _pocket_!" House snarled. He shoved his pants and boxers down to mid-thigh, well beyond where they could interfere with the drug test but not far enough to expose his scar. He gestured for the cup again.

Tritter held it just out of his reach and smiled. "To the knees."

House's jaw went slack and he lowered his hand to his side. He could feel his eyes wide, open, and Tritter was watching him. Reading him. And loving it.

No, House told himself. _Get him out of here. Stop looking like a slapped six-year-old. Get pissed. _All of a sudden it was _easy_ to be pissed – this guy was a first-class bastard for sure. "So that's what this is," he realized. "This is you getting your pervy little peep on! I'm surprised you haven't been camping out outside my windows with a pair of binoculars." 

"For all you know, I have." Tritter shook his head. "But no: this is _rules. _This is you _following _rules. This is you following rules whether you like it or not. Now."

Shut up, don't think, just do it. House bent and pushed his pants down. "There – happy?" He grabbed the cup but was unable, for some reason, to look away from the detective's face. As if he hadn't seen enough of the double-take, the horrified fascination, the embarrassed aversion of gaze afterwards... As if he needed to see one more person _stare._

He stood frozen, cup in hand, for maybe half a minute when he realized that Tritter _wasn't _looking, that Tritter had no interest in the scar at all… that he was just watching his face, drinking in the humiliation… making him show off the leg just because he _could _and because it would be a torture.

House forced himself back to the task at hand: peeing in a cup. He'd never had to go so badly in his life, but it still took an eternity before he could unclench his stomach enough to do it. Finally. He went, put the cup down, washed his hands. He took his time, too – as though pretending he didn't care could make it true. When he was done he turned to the cop, pants still down, and crossed his arms over his chest. "All done?" he asked grimly.

Then, Tritter at last looked down to the mangled thigh. He let his gaze rest there a moment, cool and appraising, and then looked up again. "Ouch," he said.

House shuddered and looked away. His face felt hot. He was lightheaded. It was several long deep breaths before he even felt calm enough to bend down and pull up his pants.

Afterwards Tritter stood over him while he took the kit apart and followed a long list of stupid directions. Every slow, sure word grated on his nerves more and more, until he thought he seriously might call the whole thing off and opt for jail instead. "Fill this jar to line A," said Tritter. "Now fill that jar to line B." _There's still like half a cup left. What happens if I chuck it at you?_

"Good. Twist the lids until they click. Further. Now make sure: are they locked?" _Are they unbreakable? Let's find out._

"Check the serial numbers on top. Do they match the number on the form? On the Styrofoam box? On the stickers we will stick to the Styrofoam box? Pay attention, Dr. House - _I _am not a number. Compare the numbers." _6531492? How about I bash you 6531492 times with my cane, could I look at you then?_

"Put each jar in a separate plastic bag." _I'll put YOU in a separate plastic bag._

"Put both jars in the Styrofoam box." _Why don't you stick the Styrofoam box up your ass, you pompous jerk?_

"Now seal the Styrofoam box with this special tape – it leaves behind a mark saying INVALID if anyone tampers with it." … _Okay, well that's cool, at least._

After the list of stupid procedures was finished and Tritter had stopped intoning orders, House broke his silence. "Is that it?"

"That's it," Tritter agreed pleasantly. He scooped up the box and headed out. "I'll drop this off at the lab before I go." He paused. "Have a good day, Doctor. See you tomorrow." House gave him a look that should have burnt him alive, but he seemed strangely impervious. He just smiled.

* * *

Monday at lunchtime, Wilson was hiding out in his office eating junk from the vending machine when his door burst open. "How the hell do you know I'm eating?" he asked without even looking up. 

"Dr. Wilson." It was Chase, looking severe... and Foreman and Cameron hovering over his shoulder. "Why aren't you at lunch?"

"What- what are you, the lunch police?" He couldn't believe how childish he sounded.

"House went to the cafeteria," Cameron explained, "And if you're not there, he's going to take it out on us."

"Believe me," Wilson said bitterly, "He's fine. He's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't need me hovering over his shoulder."

"Yes, he does," Chase insisted. "Apparently Tritter was really rough on him this morning. He wouldn't talk about it. You need to go and do whatever it is you do that turns him into a human being again."

Even Foreman had to put his two cents in. "House on a rampage is not fun," he declared. "And I'm not putting up with it for an entire month."

"Fine, fine." Wilson held up his hands. "Fine, okay. I'm going."

* * *

He found House in the cafeteria, eating. "Aha - I knew it!" he called. "It _is _possible for you to pay for your own lunch!" 

He went to sit down, but House hooked the chair with his foot and wouldn't let him pull it out. "That's going to cost you fries. Go get me some."

When Wilson was finally allowed to take a seat, he revised his assessment: House wasn't _eating, _exactly. He was just poking food with a fork.

"So: my team send you?" He glanced up and read the truth before Wilson managed to close his mouth. "Figured. Well, at least they didn't send Cameron."

"Because then you'd have no fries to steal," Wilson pointed out as House began pillaging his plate. "House, they're worried."

"They should be. I almost committed murder this morning."

"Because that's so different from every _other _morning." Wilson won a little bit of a smile, but he still sensed it was time to change the subject. "Um... so did you talk to Stacy? Can I... even _ask _you about Stacy?"

"Yeah." House finished chewing - slowly. "And yeah."

Wilson was shocked - he'd figured House would display all his usual maturity and just hide until she had gone away. "What did she say?"

House studied the ceiling. "I'm fine Greg, _Greg_!, and Greg shut up," he recited.

"I meant... beoynd the meeting."

"Oh." House shrugged. "I told her thanks. Told her she'd finally paid me back for the husband... or maybe ex-husband, by this point..."

Wilson was aghast. "You didn't _say _that?"

House grinned - it was fun making Wilson aghast. "Actually I did. And she almost slapped me, pulled back at the last second, and told me I can't have half her liver when mine finally goes kaput. Can't imagine what would lead her to predict liver failure," he added after a moment. He fished around in his pocket til he found a pill, held it up in a toast towards Wilson, and swallowed it down. "After all, _I'm _the doctor."

Wilson knew it was time for a subject change again, so they made small talk for a little bit. Eventually, though, he couldn't resist anymore. "Hey... can I ask you..."

"No."

"No?"

"If you need to ask whether you can ask me," House clarified, "Then you probably can't ask me."

"O...kay..." In a few short days it seemed he had forgotten exactly how big a headache talking to House could be. "Well, how about let me ask _whether _I need to ask if I can ask you about this," he suggested.

House sighed and looked away. "Chase did it," he said shortly. "It was effective though temporary, he's probably going to do it again, I don't have to call him Sir or Daddy, and no you can't watch. Anything else?"

Wilson had to take a minute to banish the very bizarre and disturbing image of House calling Chase "Daddy." When his mind was clear again he asked, "_Chase _did it?"

"You thought I did it myself?"

"No, I thought you... maybe went and... had it done somewhere," he explained haltingly. He didn't know what he'd thought, actually. The marks had been enough and he hadn't wanted to think about them ever again.

"Had it done," House repeated, clearly amused. "Like, at a salon?"

"Like, at... one of those... clubs, or something. House, I don't know! How the hell would I know anything about that?"

"Oh, come on - _you're _the sexually adventurous one," House teased. "Tell me you've never..."

"I haven't!" A horrible thought struck. "House... you're not saying you want... _me_ to..."

"Huh? God no!"

Despite himself Wilson was a little offended. "Why? Why not?" He was expecting to be taunted, told that he was too big a softie or that he swung like a girl.

Instead, House shrugged and didn't joke. "Because I don't want to feel like I'm being punished," he explained. "And with you, I would." Before Wilson could get a handle on his hurt enough to speak, House nodded to the table and said: "You're now officially out of food. This lunch date is at an end. Bye." He rose, dumped his own untouched tray into the garbage, and left Wilson staring at an empty plate.

* * *

TBC. 

I'm going to stop predicting what comes next each chapter, because I'm always wrong. And I'm going to try to start posting more often. Maybe chaps will be a little shorter, but more frequent. Please review!

Rants and responses:

Firetop: Chase will have some good stuff to do to House soon...

Slrmn82: I agree that House and Tritter have some stuff in common, but I think there's one huge difference: House goes person-to-person when he tortures people, rather than abusing his position. He's a jerk, but he didn't order an unnecessary amputation just because Tritter got on his nerves. When I think of the way they harass each other, I keep thinking of the line from Super Troopers - House's shenanigans are cheeky and fun, whereas Tritter's are cruel and tragic, which makes them not really shenangians at all. The very first time they meet we see a difference: House orders a rectal thermometer _which Tritter could have refused_, and says openly that it's to test for a condition he's sure Tritter doesn't have. Sure, leaving him there wasn't nice... but it still falls within the definition of _shenanigan _in my book. Kicking somebody's cane to make them fall over does not. It punishes House for his disability, not for his stubbornness. There's nothing clever or ironic about it. It's not fun. (The time Wilson did it though, it _was _clever and ironic and fun. That's because he had a standing invitation to screw with House, and pretended he was above even the most harmless pranks, but then turned around and busted out with something so hardcore. That's cool. They both thought it was fun. That's a shenanigan). And that's not to mention putting serious effort into getting House locked up and ruining his life. That's not cheeky or fun at _all_. 

Right. End of rant.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Wow, you guys are pretty unanimous in wishing death & dismemberment & other fine holiday treats on Tritter... Don't worry, I'm sure House will get the best of him somehow. It may not be anything as flashy as getting him molested by a goat or burned alive in a landfill fire or whatever else people mentioned, but I have something planned for him in a chapter or two.

* * *

Day two, and House was already tired of playing it straight. When they hit the bathroom at 9AM on the dot, he immediately chucked his cane to the floor and struck a pose. 

"We need better music than this elevator garbage if I'm going to be stripping down every day," he observed, shrugging his jacket sensuously from one shoulder at a time. He pulled it off, twirled it over his head like the Village People, and tossed it to Tritter with a lot of eyelash fluttering. He tucked the hem of his shirt up into the neck hole, gyrated some more, and then tackled the pants.

The belt came first, drawn lovingly through its loops. "Oh, baby," House said. "Work it." He unzipped and shimmied his pants down all the way to the floor, and stepped out of them. Tritter opened his mouth, but House stopped him with an imperious gesture. "You," he said, "Can not tell me how to do my striptease." Underwear down next, and then he gestured arrogantly for the cup.

Tritter was watching him suspiciously as he filled it. "You're high, aren't you," he guessed. When House set the cup on the sink, Tritter took one look at the dark yellow liquid and grinned. "And you didn't even bother to hydrate. My God - addicts _are _stupid."

"Oh, _no_," House pouted as he dressed again. "Daddy's caught me being such a dirty, _dirty _boy! What am I going to do?" He straightened up and let his voice drop back into its normal range. "Oh yeah, I know: _not a damn thing_, because there's nothing in that cup that shouldn't be, and you're a sicko." He scrutinized Tritter's face and shook his head. "I saw that evil little gleam of hope there. I hope you choke on it."

He was near bursting with the desire to dance around and brag at the top of his lungs: I _am _high and I'm lightheaded and about to vomit, because I drank so much this morning that I'm going to need treatment for water intoxication! But you'll never _know _that that sample is diluted as hell, because I also took a cocktail of goodies that'll keep you from finding out! You've already noticed the color… that'd be vitamins. Check for creatinine while you're at it, I covered that too. Specific gravity? Low but still within range. I am a step ahead of you. Two steps, three. I will test clean. You are a moron. Ha!

His head spun all of a sudden and he realized he would have to wrap this up fast, before he passed out or threw up or otherwise acted so strange as to give the game away. "Let's go - gimme the jars and boxes and whatever other useless precautions you've got there."

Tritter talked him through the procedure again calmly, and afterwards just said, with perfect confidence: "You can't do it, House. I'm going to get you. Maybe not today... but soon."

House pursed his lips. There were so many comebacks it was hard to choose one, but he was in the mood to do voices. So he rasped "I'll get you next time, Gadget!" and then smiled innocently until Tritter went away.

* * *

House spent the rest of the day hiding in the clinic, recovering. Everyone had the sense to leave him alone except Wilson, who showed up at lunchtime with food and an innocuous "You okay?" and got his head bitten off. 

"We've been over this. Buzz off."

"Hey," Wilson said, a little severely, "Stop it. _Everyone_ gets to ask if you're okay. Chase says it all the time."

"Yeah, well coming from Chase the words have _meaning,_" House retorted. "Because if I'm not, he actually intends to _do _something about it. Give me your sandwich."

"But I already… and you don't even _like_-"

House took a giant bite, chewed it up, and spat it back out over the rest. "If I let you keep it," he explained, "You'll just try to sit here and eat with me." Then he tackled his own sandwich, chomping away with an apparent lack of concern until Wilson got the message and went away.

House immediately put the sandwich aside – he felt sick and in no mood to eat.

Wilson shook his head at the team, who were all waiting outside. "Don't bother – he's sulking like a six-year-old," he reported. "He can't _do _this for an entire month!"

"Sure he can," Foreman put in. "It's just that _you _can't. _We _can't. And somehow I doubt he'll care. Let's start sending him in patients – I bet that'll flush him out pretty quickly."

Chase shook his head. "Let him alone. I'll do his clinic hours this afternoon."

"I'll do it," Cameron said without thinking, "You've been doing en- I mean-… I'll go."

Chase hoped he'd imagined the strange nervous look she gave him. She'd been giving him a lot of those, lately.

* * *

After that the mere sight of a Poland Spring bottle made him feel ill, so House stuck to his schedule and took only as many pills as he was supposed to. This meant he walked into his office the next day in hideous pain, underwent his third drug test without any shenanigans at all because he just had no energy for it, and then headed off to the clinic. Life could hardly be any worse than this, he reasoned, no matter what he did. Might as well go to the clinic of his own accord – he could hoard up a Get-Out-Of-Lecture-Free card for the next time Cuddy came to yell at him. 

He swabbed a guy's crotch for an STD test without even bothering to give his usual lecture about the evils of unprotected sex. He picked up a baby whose parents feared appendicitis and explained wearily that the little beast just needed to be burped.

Next he drew a woman who talked a lot. She wanted to be on birth control and had a dozen questions about each of the possible methods. When he couldn't bear her any more, he simply got up right in the middle of her speech and headed for the door. "I'm getting you a different doctor," he told her, "Because your voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and I've got a headache from that awful perfume you're wearing, and you're… annoying to look at."

Just as he opened the door, she echoed: "I'm _annoying to look at_?!"

Cuddy was right there, about six inches from his face. She got as far as, "_House_…." before he snatched the chart off a door and dove into a different exam room to dodge her.

He paused there a moment, ear to the door, until he heard her footsteps click away. With a sigh of relief, he turned to face his next tormenter.

A girl, hanging her head, sniffling. He glanced at her file and saw that she was fourteen and that she had listed "a cold" as her only symptom. He sighed. "Spill."

"I had- I, I had… I need a tissue." When she heard his uneven thumping approach she finally tore her eyes up from the floor, and stammered an apology for making him wait on her.

"Here. Forget it – just tell me what's wrong." He hooked a stool with his cane and sat down.

Her hands twisted nervously in her sleeves. "I had some beer the other night and I… think I have alcohol poisoning."

He gave up on trying to pass himself off as fine, but spun his stool around so she could only see his back as he rubbed furiously at his thigh. "Swing and a miss," he said tightly. "How about you just tell me the symptoms, and _I _tell _you _what's wrong with you. What hurts?"

"I, um, I got… _drunk._" She almost whispered the word. "With some girls from my school… older girls. They never… well anyway, it was my first time and I didn't know how much to have. I don't remember sleeping over, I woke up really sick… I googled it to see what was wrong with me…"

"Yeah, yeah," he snapped towards the ground. "That's called _hangover. _That was yesterday's problem. What's wrong with you _now_?"

"Well the thing is, my headache went away but I'm still, like, puking. It's been two days. And my… my hair is… _look _at it! It got all brittle, it's _falling out_, I don't have cancer and I don't take baths in radioactive waste, I don't know what else would do this to me except if I-"

His pager went off. It was Chase: YOU OKAY?

He answered OFFICE NOW and told the girl: "Obviously you have no idea what alcohol poisoning is. There might be something wrong with you or there might not, I'll be back in a second to tell you which." She gave him a weird look, although not much weirder than the rest of his patients usually did, and he headed out as fast as he could.

* * *

Chase showed up half a minute after he did. "Sorry, sorry – I was with patients." 

House shrugged. "So was I," he said. "Gotta prioritize."

"Right. I'll find that stick again." Chase started fishing it out from behind the shelves where he'd hidden it, while House closed off the office from prying eyes.

"So, have we got time to really bliss me out today?" he asked hopefully.

"Dream on. And bend over." Chase watched as he arranged himself as requested, marveling at how unhesitatingly he pulled his jeans down despite all the miserable experiences with pants-dropping he'd been enduring of late. He wished there was time for something a little more gentle and considerate, but… "Sorry about this."

House shrugged. "No need to apologize in adv- _AOW_!" His hands flew to his ass, his breath whooshed out and in again, and when he could speak he said, "Okay – _now _you can apologize."

"Move your hands," Chase chuckled. "Don't be such a baby."

"I'm trying. Apparently my hands just… have a lot more sense than I do." House finally managed to let go, but was immediately dealt another stroke so brutal that he had to grab hold all over again, as if it would somehow be possible to squeeze the pain away.

After a while Chase tugged gently on his wrist. "Hands down," he coaxed. "That's right, come on."

"I know… I know, okay _go_." House locked his hands together behind his head and arched his back so as to present a clear target. When the blow came he jerked and arched further. "Ow _ow _wait, wait wait wait," he repeated breathlessly.

"Relax – I won't surprise you." To prove his point Chase waited a bit, then tapped the stick against an unmarked spot. "Ready?"

House nodded and was hit. He was still twisting around in agony when Chase touched him with the stick again, and though he was screaming _GREG NO NOT YET _to himself he nodded without delay. That one hurt – a lot – and it took every bit of willpower he had to keep his hands up and out of the way.

His eyes teared up after he okayed the next stroke, and then spilled over on the one after that. Then Chase said: "Last one – you say when."

He filled his lungs slowly, bracing for unspeakable pain, and then nodded. "When."

As if in slow motion he heard the rod's airy whistle, shut his eyes tight, felt a burst of terror and a simultaneous wave of firm resolve wash over him. _Oh God here it-_

_CRACK_.

House tensed his whole body and then, after a moment, opened his eyes in surprise. While by no means painless, that last stroke had been the lightest of the day and hardly even registered as objectionable to his throbbing, searing butt cheeks. He unlaced his fingers and planted his hands on the desk, glad to have something to lean on. Fainting from pure relief was something better suited to fifteen-year-old Victorian ladies than to grumpy male doctors of the twenty-first century.

As he caught his breath he realized that Chase had apparently grown bolder since last time; he'd tossed down the stick and was now kneading the damage with both hands. House didn't mind – it helped focus all his attention on the delicious sensation of pain easing, pain melting, pain transforming into a pleasant achy buzz. Anyone who could do that was welcome… more than welcome… to get as up close and personal as they needed to.

Chase leaned down over him and said close to his ear, "Comfortable, or not?"

Deciding that _I've never been more comfortable in my life; you feel like heaven _might sound a little strange, House went a lighter route. "Stay right where you are – your hair smells good."

Then something tugged at the edges of his mind. _Your hair smells good._ _–That awful perfume you're wearing..._ Chase smelled good, the first girl patient he'd seen today didn't smell good at all, but the second girl… the one with her hair falling out, what did _she _smell like? Not awful floral perfume… not that coconutty stuff Chase had anointed himself with…

House jerked upright all of a sudden. It killed him to pull away from those wonderful hands, but there was a patient and he had the answer and that took precedence over all other needs. "I have to go."

"Because you… have a patient?"

"Because I decided your hair actually _doesn't _smell good," House tossed off as he zipped up his pants. "Of course it's a patient, you idiot."

* * *

House burst in on his girl and found her lying on the table dangling her arm over the side, the picture of dejection. He took a moment to roll his eyes, then clomped on over to her and bent to sniff her head. 

She sat up so fast she almost knocked him over. "What-"

"You're fine." House handed her another tissue and sat down. "When the girls loaded your drunk ass into the shower that night, somebody apparently thought it would be funny to wash your hair with Nair instead of shampoo," he explained. "Nair reeks. Haven't you noticed your head's been reeking? Why haven't you showered in the last two days?"

"Nair?" She shook her head, eyes wide. "I- I didn't notice, I've been too worried about being poisoned. And I was afraid washing my hair would make it fall out faster."

"And anxiety is what's upsetting your stomach," House finished, then felt magnanimous enough to give her another tissue and some advice. "Calm down and you'll stop puking. Go to a hair place to fix that mess on your head… and for the big issue, I recommend mint-flavored laxative."

"Laxative?"

"Yep. Put it in fudge, or between the layers of a layer cake." He shrugged. "I had my eyebrows shaved once in college. Those guys paid for it for the rest of the year."

* * *

TBC. 

3 things planned in the next chapter or so: the ducklings finally speak up about what they know, Chase gets a present and some ideas, and Tritter is an evil, sneaky bastard.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed!

**Chowrie** – yeah, I think Wilson's heart is in the right place but I have big issues with the way he treats House… or actually, maybe it's more what Cameron says: maybe I have issues with the way he _feels _about the way he treats House. He seems to feel he's never in the wrong in their relationship. So he annoys me… but I can't see him "giving up" on their friendship without a fight.

**Slrmn82** – I didn't mean anything critical or personal by ranting. I was just trying to somehow explain my weird inarticulatable feeling that there's some difference (in like nature, not just in severity) between House's nastiness and Tritter's. Still can't really put my finger on it in a way that makes sense to other people though… maybe I'm just letting House off easier because I like him :o)


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Ok, Tritter doesn't get devious just yet… he's still just an ass. But don't worry, his deviousness is coming. I've already written it, and it makes me want to kick him. With cleats on.

* * *

House was trying to maneuver himself around the bathroom so that he wouldn't have his back to the mirrors, but Tritter had parked them in exactly the wrong location and didn't seem about to move. "I promise I'm as patient as you are stubborn," he droned, watching his victim fidget. "If you're trying to piss me off by stalling, don't bother. It won't work." 

Okay, moving was out. In a move of desperation House tried whining, "But it's cold!" That got no response either, so he finally gave up and peeled down his pants quickly, biting his lip as the denim scraped over what Chase had done to him yesterday. Maybe Tritter would happen not to glance in the mirror, or if he did maybe he would somehow not notice. Fat chance of that, though – the welts were currently a deep red, surrounded by the dusky beginnings of a bruise… _Makeup, _House realized suddenly, _Why didn't I think of using makeup_? Well, he would buy some tonight. That way, he wouldn't get gaped at when his ass turned all mottled purple and yellow over the next couple of days…

He cooperated as quickly as he could, but as he'd feared, by the time he was done Tritter was staring over his shoulder into the mirror. There was a tiny crease in the detective's forehead, but otherwise his face was as unreadable as ever. "Care to tell me what happened? Did you piss off the wrong person – again?" he asked, with the fake sympathy that made House's skin crawl.

House raised his chin. "I walked into a door."

"Strange," Tritter mused aloud. His eyes traveled over House's body, lingered on his face, then darted towards the mirror as he considered. "If somebody had held you down and given you the beating you deserve… you might be ashamed of that, or angry, I'd understand. But you're not. You're not angry _or_ ashamed, you're… _embarrassed_." A slow smile spread across his face. "Because you participated willingly. You _like _that. You… get off on that."

House could feel the blush hot on his cheeks and hated himself for it. "You're wrong – don't you ever get tired of that? – and anyway it's none of your business," he snapped, pulling up his pants fast and trying not to show how much it hurt.

"Of course. Just making… friendly conversation." Tritter handed him the jars, told him to start pouring, and then went on with his observations. "But I'm right - the lines are straight and parallel. Means you held still for it."

"Or maybe I sat on a grill. Or maybe," House suggested while he flew through the packaging procedures as fast as humanly possible, "I was hit only once, with... mmm... a rake. Against my will."

"Maybe." Tritter didn't say anything else until House was all finished. He was frowning.

"What?" House demanded at last. It was annoying the hell out of him to be stared at for something so silly as a couple of cane marks.

"I never pegged you for a masochist." It seemed to trouble Tritter, and suddenly House had an idea.

"Yeah? I'd have thought it's kind of obvious," he laughed. "Why else would I keep on picking fights with you?" He stole a quick look and noticed with satisfaction that the frown line was deepening. "You're almost as good as Cuddy," he continued. "You guys both do the parental-disapproval thing really well, but the stunning rack sill makes _her _my disciplinarian of choice." He paused and then asked, eyes wide and innocent: "May I go now?"

* * *

The encounter with Tritter had amused him a little, but today House was still in a lot of pain. So, when he got to his office and Cameron handed him a file straight away, he gave it only a cursory once-over before declaring: "Snoozefest!" 

She was offended. "How is this a snoozefest? He's a firefighter in the prime of life, he shouldn't be having-"

"Disorientation?" Somehow House felt better when he was arguing. "The guy spends his time running in and out of smoke-filled burning buildings, I'd say that could be a bit disorienting, wouldn't you? What else…" He took another quick look. "EKG showed a mild arrhythmia. Probably had a minor heart attack... again, refer back to that whole smoke-filled burning buildings thing. Huge stress on the body. And disorienting. One might almost say he should consider not doing it."

He was caustic today, but they had all seen worse. Even Chase dared to speak up. "Do you really think it's a heart attack?" he asked into the file, frowning a little. "There's no chest pain. And that wouldn't explain the fever, anyway."

House sighed, rolled his eyes, rubbed his leg. "Okay, assuming we can chalk the disorientation and arrhythmia up to occupational hazards, that does leave fever. Fever, people: go!"

Foreman spoke up first. "His temperature's been up and down. Could indicate a hypothalamic tumor."

House nodded. "Right on cue, the neurologist blames a brain tumor. Other ideas? _Better _ideas?"

"The ER nurses are really busy," Chase suggested. "It could be something as simple as he had a cup of coffee or something right before they-"

"Yeah, it _could _be nothing," Cameron interrupted. "Or he _could_ have picked up an infection when he got those skin grafts. So what? Neither explains the arrhythmia."

"Still, infection wouldn't be surprising," House mused, "Due to the extent of his burns and his hospital stays and his oh-so-sanitary working conditions." He nodded to Cameron. "Draw blood cultures to rule it out. Monitor his temperature for real this time, so we know if he even _has _a fever or not. And Foreman, if you actually think a tumor fits, check for it. Otherwise, go online and download some porn."

Foreman's eyebrows rose. "Uh... isn't that usually _your _job?"

"Yes, but just in _case _there's something more going on than the obvious, and this guy isn't a total yawn after all... I'm going down to the patient's room."

"To the-… patient's room?" Cameron echoed.

"Yep. I'm going to go talk to his partner. Says here the partner's name is Amy," House explained. "Firefighter chicks turn me on."

* * *

After House had gone, the three of them stood looking at one another in confusion. "Anyone care to explain that?" Foreman asked. 

"He's probably just looking for an excuse to move around some," Cameron suggested. "It looks like he's in a lot of pain today." She turned to Chase for confirmation. "Right?"

"How would I know?" Nobody answered, but he was getting Looks from the both of them, so finally Chase sighed and said, "Okay. Fine. You both obviously know what's been going on. Who told you – Wilson or Cuddy?"

"_Cuddy_?" Foreman was shocked. "Cuddy knows - and she's okay with it?"

Cameron was shocked too, but for a different reason. " _Wilson _knows - and he hasn't stopped you?"

"House says it's none of his business," Chase explained quietly, then frowned. "Wait - if neither of _them _told you then..." They didn't answer right away, but Chase knew they didn't deal well with uncomfortable silences. If he stared at them long enough one would eventually cave…

It was Cameron. She tried tackling the stack of the morning's mail and pretending to go through it, but eventually the tension was too much for her and she had to answer. "We... saw. Christmas Eve, when you were late to dinner."

That was unexpected. "You _saw_, and you... didn't say anything?"

"It was none of our business, and anyway, what were we supposed to say?" Foreman put in. "Hey, Chase, guess what: we caught you and our boss doing weird and twisted stuff in the office..."

"It's not weird and-"

Before Chase could even finish protesting, Cameron stepped in. "I think it's great," she said earnestly, touching his arm. "House is _trusting_ you... that's a huge step."

"A step for what?" He realized he had recoiled pretty violently, and tried to sound a little calmer. "I'm not _trying_ to change him. I'm just trying to help him cope, just for now while he can't have his medication. That's all."

"Okay, sorry, whatever you say… hey, what's this?" She bent to check the label on a box that had come in with the mail. "Robert Chase, Department of Diagnostics," she read. "So, you really don't think House is feeling a little different towards you lately?"

"I just told you, _no_. Nothing's-"

She managed to look self-satisfied and jealous at the same time. "Because this is a present. To you. From him."

* * *

When they all met back up in the conference room later, House noticed that the box was sitting in the center of the table, unopened. 

Chase followed his eyes and explained, before he could even ask: "Knowing you, it might be a bomb or a toxin or something… I thought it best to wait til you were actually in the room before I opened it. You ran off so fast this morning to see Amy that I didn't have a chance."

"_Ran off _being the operative word," Cameron said blandly, studying her book. "You know, there are some people who would actually _want_ to see their gift opened. The happiness of the recipient would actually make _them _feel good, too." She looked up, pretending to be puzzled. "Strange, huh?"

"Some people are really weird," House agreed. "Now scram – I need a better patient history and a new bag of lollipops for my office. Not necessarily in that order."

Foreman took the hint and dashed out, but Cameron threw one last look towards the box. House rolled his eyes. "He's been homesick lately, so I got him a little kangaroo. Okay? Great. Go."

Once they were gone, Chase got out a pair of scissors and went to work on the packaging. "I'd better hurry, if I don't want the poor thing to suffocate in there," he laughed.

"Actually, there's two things," House told him. "One's just a really cool thing I thought you should have, to make your friends jealous the next time you go to one of those pervert parties of yours. The other thing… I think we're going to have an argument over."

"Argument?" But then the box was open, and Chase felt around in the styrofoam peanuts and before he even saw it he knew what it was. "Flogger?" he guessed. He pulled it out by its polished wooden handle and shook all the bits of styrofoam from its tails. "Whoa. House, it's… beautiful."

"I was on the phone for like half an hour trying to figure out what to get… that one's deer leather, and the woman swears it's pretty versatile… what she described is basically on the level of what you... you know…"

"Yeah." Chase stroked it, gave it an experimental swish through the air. "I could go pretty gentle with this, but I bet we could make it sting if we wanted to." As he toyed with it he noticed a glint in the handle, and brought it close to his face to look.

Carved into the wood was a small silver word: _THANKS_.

When House noticed him noticing, he got a little antsy and nudged the box again. "Go ahead, take out the other one. This we might fight over, but I couldn't resist, especially when-"

Chase felt around and encountered a hard, smooth leather braid. His eyes widened. "Oh, now you've _got _to be joking."

"Nope," House said happily as he drew out a three foot long singletail whip. "I wasn't kidding about what was in the box – that's kangaroo hide. Seriously. I want to-"

"Have you lost your mind?" Chase hefted it in his hand and decided at once that it was probably one of the coolest things he owned. "I'm not going to hit you with this!" He answered the _why not _before House even said it. "Because if it's done right it's fucking agony, and if it's done wrong, which it would be because I don't know what I'm doing, it's _dangerous._ I'll… poke your eye out, or something."

House watched the tip snaking through the air with the tiniest twitch of Chase's fingers, and felt a thrill of doubt creeping in. Not enough to make him back down, but just enough to make him cautious. "Okay – how's this: You take it home and figure it out… take lessons, kill squirrels, whatever… and then bring it in and we'll see what happens. So," he added suddenly, "D'you think you can crack it?"

"Probably. Here:"

The sound was like a gunshot. They stared at each other a moment, speechless.

Finally House breathed "_Bitchin_"and Chase had to concede the point. There was no two ways about it – it _was _bitchin, and there was no way they were going to not give it a try. He coiled the singletail up, and stuck it into his bag.

* * *

TBC. 

I actually feel bad for Wilson. He and House are going to get some quality time soon… not sniping at each other, but like actual quality time… Close enough to the way they used to be, in fact, that Wilson will probably get all angsty and nostalgic about what he's lost. Well, he should have thought of that before he ratted, right:o)


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I got distracted and posted a brief Huddyish thing... I have no idea what I was thinking. :o)

* * *

Wilson was not in the mood to eat lunch alone. Ordinarily, that meant he would go get House. The problem was, since they were on dubious terms lately and House tended to see everything as a power play, he knew he couldn't invite him in a way that suggested he actually wanted him to go. If he did, House would interpret it as some kind of weakness, and would take it as an invitation to walk all over him. 

So Wilson decided on a tone of utter indifference. He poked his head in without knocking, jacket already over his arm. "Hey - lunch?" he asked. "I'll drive. I'm in the mood for Mexican, and I'm sick of cafeteria crap."

"Can't. I've got a hooker on the way."

That was Housespeak for _none of your business_. That left Wilson to draw his own conclusions, and he decided he was being thrown out just because House didn't yet want to deal with him. Now was as good a time as any to try for some progress, he thought.

So he stepped in and threw his jacket onto the chair. "Think she'd go for a threesome?" he asked. "Or are you still too mad at me for us to ejaculate in the same vagina?"

House laughed so suddenly that he drew a big scribble on the letter he was signing. "Nice," he acknowledged, then said seriously: "It's not like that, though. I really am busy. Otherwise I'd go with you. Really."

Wilson sat down. "Okay: who are you, and what have you done with my friend?"

"What?"

"Oh, come on!" Wilson gestured towards him in frustration. "_Nice _isn't you, House! Insult me, make fun of me, order me to bring you back a burrito... but don't treat me like some teenager who's called the suicide hotline."

When he was done speaking, Wilson realized there was something over his shoulder that House's eyes kept darting to. He turned and saw that Chase was in the doorway.

"Uh, Dr. Wilson, hi. Sorry," he added. "I hadn't realized you were busy. I'll come back later, or..."

"No - stay," House told him. "Wilson's on his way to lunch anyhow."

Wilson obediently rose and backed up a step in response to the Look his friend was giving him, but then found he couldn't leave without voicing his dismay. "I assume he's here to... House, are you really...? You look fine."

"Didn't I tell you to stop speculating on my level of fineness?" House reminded.

So he took his sense-talking elsewhere. "Chase, come on, he doesn't need this."

"But it's-" Chase stopped and just shrugged.

"It's what?" Wilson demanded. He couldn't believe the word he was coming up with. "_Fun_?" Neither of them answered, but when Wilson saw them direct matching embarrassed smiles down towards the floor, something snapped. He'd risked _everything_ for House, his own career and his freedom and even their friendship itself when it came down to it. By some miracle he hadn't yet lost him to jail or to the pills... and now he was losing him anyway? He raised his head. "Is that how it was with the Vicodin, too?" he asked. "First it was to manage your pain and then it was just... fun."

He didn't even get to see House's reaction because someone stepped between them. Aggressively. "Unlike the Vicodin," Chase snarled, "I happen to have feelings, and I don't think I deserve your disgust. Next time wait til I'm not standing directly in the crossfire before you play the who-can-say-the-cruelest-thing-to-their-friends game. Thanks."

Silence. Wilson looked horrified with himself. "Chase, I'm sorry. I had no right to-"

"It's okay," Chase said quickly, clearly just as uncomfortable. "I shouldn't have yelled at you either."

They stood looking at each other until House interrupted. "Awww... is it time for a group hug?" He grinned at them as they both attempted to fry him with their eyes, and stood up from his desk. "Chase, hang out here - I'll be right back. Wittle Jimmy's out past his bedtime, and I have to walk him home to his mommy." He took his cane and went out without looking back. "Wilson, cmon."

When they were out in the hallway Wilson said, "Okay, okay, I deserved that."

"I know. Glad to oblige – it being _for your own good_, and all." When Wilson stiffened, House sighed and turned to face him. "Look: do you think Chase is going to do irreversible and fatal damage to my body?"

"What? No, of course not."

"Then he's an improvement over the Vicodin. So let it alone."

It was the first time House had admitted aloud that his usual dosages were a problem. In recognition of that step, Wilson forced himself to swallow down his objections to the new hobby for right now and say instead: "You're right. Okay."

The tension disappeared at once. "So… you really jonesing for Mexican?"

"Yeah. You in?"

"You buying?" House smirked at him. "I'll come by your office in half an hour and we'll take off. Okay? Gimme half an hour."

"House…" What was there to say? "Be careful."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later House barged in and declared, "I'm starving. Let's go." 

"You're a little less late than usual," Wilson observed, trying to check him out surreptitiously as he got his coat on and closed up his desk. There didn't seem to be any sign of whatever had just happened... but still. He figured it would be all right to check just once: "Are you... okay?"

House shot him a glare that was not at all playful. "I'm a pain patient who's being denied his meds. Do you think if you ask me enough times you'll get a different answer?"

They had to pause their argument because Cameron was waiting just outside the door for them. "House, listen," she began, falling into step beside them as they headed down the hall. "The patient is seeing blue - means the color palette is affected-"

"I know what _seeing blue _means."

"Well, it's not explained by anything we have so far."

"Clearly not explained by anything _you _have; let's poll the audience. Wilson!" He turned on his friend abruptly. "Blue vision is a side effect of what medication? Not that I'm implying you take any."

Wilson looked past him to Cameron. "Viagra."

"Wilson!" House broke in again, looking pleased with himself. "New patient: temperature swings, disorientation, sudden decrease in sex drive."

"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson." Wilson reached out for a handshake. "I'm an oncologist. If you're looking for a diagnostician, sir, we actually have a whole team of them here in this hospital. They work for this jerk who walks around already _knowing _the answer and-"

"What if I said _hot flashes _instead of _temperature swings, _would that help? Cameron?" House swung around to face her. "Now this is _your _department."

"My...? It sounds like menopause," she said, frowning. "There _is_ such a thing as male menopause... but our guy's the wrong age."

"Age isn't the only cause," Wilson put in. The sooner they got rid of her the sooner they could eat. "What about trauma to the genital area?"

"You mean," House said with a look of pretend shock, "He could have _hurt _himself running into smoke-filled burning buildings for a living?" They had almost reached the elevator. "Run a hormone panel."

It still wasn't enough to shake her. "Fine. But that still doesn't explain the heart issue. He had another, you know, incident. Chase and Foreman are checking him out now."

"Heart attack."

"No!" she insisted. "No chest pain. Besides, what would he be doing with multiple heart attacks at his age?"

"I don't know - the same thing he's doing with menopause? Find out what Foreman and Chase turned up, and talk to me when you know something more than just _an incident_." The elevator doors opened and House blocked Cameron with his cane. "Bye."

"Wait, but-"

"Bye."

Once the doors closed, Wilson laughed. "At least your team goes the extra mile. Which, by the way, is what I was talking about. Not your leg. I was asking whether you're okay from whatever you and Chase just did."

House picked up the argument seamlessly. "Stop worrying - that feels fine. Good, even."

Wilson wondered if House was provoking him on purpose. "You can tell me to butt out if you want but don't lie to me. I saw what it looked like afterwards - that doesn't feel 'fine,' that hurts like hell."

"Let's let _me _be the judge of that, okay?"

At that moment the elevator doors opened. Wilson stepped out, but House didn't. Instead, he pushed the button for the floor they had just left, and waited for the doors to start closing.

"Wait- House!" Wilson stuck his hand in at the last second and the elevator sprang open again. "Come on - you can't _run away _from a conversation with your best friend. I'll just talk to you again tomorrow. Or sooner."

"I'm not running away," House informed him. "I've got to go treat a patient. Maybe you've heard of him? He's this firefighter... who's been having multiple heart attacks. Could be serious."

"Heart attacks? But you said-..." Comprehension dawned. "Just because we should believe _you _about pain doesn't mean we should believe anybody else. Gotcha. Your logic is straightforward and flawless as usual." Wilson sighed in resignation and stepped away from the elevator. "Bye."

As the door slid shut House called, "Bring me back a burrito!"

Even though he would be eating lunch alone again, Wilson was satisfied. You couldn't get any more typically House than that.

* * *

TBC. 

Aww, poor Wilson. I'm starting to feel bad for him. Next chapter will have some juicy stuff, if that's what you're waiting for. Because I, too, think Chase looks very good carrying a whip. Leave me a review!


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Okay, sorry for the wait. Here's a nice long chapter with a juicy bit in it… and plenty of House and Wilson's plotting and counter-plotting.

* * *

The next week passed uneventfully. Tritter played it mostly straight, clearly reluctant to abuse somebody who might be enjoying it. House could feel him watching, waiting, looking for new and more effective methods of torment, but until he made his mind up, for a few days there was peace. 

Things with Chase were generally good, though he had as yet refused to try out the bitchinly scary whip. The other, tamer toy was in use practically every day, but they always had to take it down to the sleep lab because of the noise.

The firefighter, on the other hand, was not as good. His case was at a standstill – they had finally identified his partner Amy as the cause of his heart attacks and had invented ways of keeping her out of the room. The question of how to _treat _his broken heart syndrome hardly interested House at all, though, and consequently he wouldn't apply himself to it, not when he was in this much pain and had a bottle of Vicodin rattling around in his pocket that he wasn't allowed to take.

It was a short, uncomfortable though bearable lull in House's month of misery. It came to an end the day Wilson dropped by while the brainstorming was going on.

"I still say we should tell Amy what's been going on," Cameron began forcefully. "Maybe she can-… House? Is everything all right?" He was sitting in his chair with his head back and eyes closed.

"Everything's fine."

"But you're not… helping us," Foreman pointed out. It wasn't an unusual observation for him to make these days, but this morning, for a change, there was another option besides just complaining: he looked to Wilson for backup.

Wilson sighed, adjusted his stance, spoke up firmly. "House, come on. Make an effort. Think."

As usual, House didn't react well to being ordered around. He sat up and threw a fearsome glare. "Can't think," he snapped. His eyes flashed to Chase.

Chase looked a little surprised, but nevertheless got up without a word and headed into the office. House promised "One second," to the table at large, and then followed him.

Foreman kept right on taking notes, shaking his head. Cameron stared after them, clearly jealous of all the bonding she imagined was going on, and then turned her peevishness on Wilson. "Why can't you let him be? He's only doing it to freak you out," she declared. "He never interrupts a diagnosis like this."

Wilson's jaw dropped. "They're-..."

"That would be a safe bet." Foreman didn't even look up, even when a sharp _crack _issued forth from the office. "Yep."

"No. That's just... no." Wilson took a step forward, but Cameron grabbed his labcoat.

"They're both adults," she reminded him, shaking her head reproachfully when he flinched at the noises. "It's not my cup of tea either, but it seems like it's helping him."

All of a sudden, over the sound of cane on flesh, they heard House call: "I can hear you listening! Go away!"

A moment later the two of them reappeared, calm, unruffled, and fully dressed. "So," House said cheerfully as he made his way back to his chair. "Talk to me."

Cameron waited til he was seated (and had finished wincing), then repeated her initial point: "I think we should tell Amy what's going on."

* * *

Later on Wilson chewed over what had happened. House had obviously decided that getting his own ass kicked was an effective way to punish his friend… and Wilson was damned if he would let himself be manipulated that easily. 

He would _not _let it bother him. In fact, he would try and look on the bright side. Yes, it was weird. But it clearly provided House with a necessary distraction from his pain and it was legal and, for the most part, harmless. Actually… it was in many ways _preferable _to munching pills like candy. It might be a _good _thing for House to keep it up, even after the month was over. It might help him keep his dosages down a little.

He mentioned the possibility that afternoon.

* * *

That night, Chase's phone rang. 

"It's House. I need a favor."

His voice had gone all low and urgent, which was making Chase a little nervous. What could he possible need that would warrant that tone? "Um… okay," he said carefully. "Mind telling me what?"

"Tomorrow, I need you to hurt me."

He blinked. "I know. I do it almost every day."

"No – I mean really _hurt_ me. Bring in the evil whip and hit me hard enough that I regret asking."

Chase sighed. "Is this part of some sinister plan?"

"Of course."

* * *

The next day House banged the door of the sleep lab open with his cane. "So. This morning, solely through his amazing powers of observation, with _no_ cleverly-dropped clues from me, Wilson brilliantly deduced the location of our secret hideout. He was just with me when you paged. I said it was a patient, he knows I was lying. I'd guess two minutes for him to wrestle with his conscience, and then he'll be right down here. Are you sure you can do this?" 

"Yes. He will leave here thoroughly convinced that this is in no way a viable substitute for medication. He'll kick himself for ever even thinking of it. He'll probably cry. So will you," he added as an afterthought. "Are you sure _you _can do this?"

"It's worth it to me to _not _hear his bitching for the rest of forever. Besides, I just have to stand there and take it," House pointed out. "You're the one has to dish it out. If you're good, I'm good. Let's go."

They went inside one of the bedrooms and closed the door. House put his jacket on the bed and Chase tossed down his bag. They took out the toys – the flogger and the singletail. House waved them around while Chase unzipped his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "How hard was it to get good with this thing?"

Chase shrugged. "Longer than you'd think – I decided to err on the side of caution. If I accidentally wrap it around your neck or your chest, you will not be happy." He'd worried that he might not be able to act naturally if he knew that Wilson was watching, but as it turned out, his hesitation about what he was about to do won out over all his self-consciousness. "House… are you sure about this?"

"I want to know what it feels like – up front, not after all that building-up crap. I'm not _actually _a cat, so to the best of my knowledge curiosity isn't dangerous for me."

Chase took the whip from him and shook it out. "You may change your mind about that in a second. Take your shirt off."

House did. He took a deep breath, then went to stand braced against the wall. Chase squared up. "Last time: are you sure about this?" He got a nod and then, without giving himself time to think it over again, cocked his elbow and let loose.

* * *

Wilson was, of course, by now in the observation room spying. 

The way he saw it, a few things seemed to all happen at once: the movement of Chase's arm, the unbelievably loud _POP _of leather against skin, and the reflexive arch of House's back against the impact.

The sound came a moment later: a high-pitched scream of pain and shock that would haunt his sleep for weeks to come. House spun around and rammed his back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, mindlessly wriggling as though trying to scrub the paint off with his injured shoulders.

Not even on his worst days, curled up on the floor of his office pleading for morphine, had House looked to be in this much pain. Wilson went for the doorknob, all ready to burst in and try to offer some kind of comfort, but Chase beat him to it.

"Okay, okay, relax," Chase was saying calmly. "Relax, move, I'll rub it for you." Wilson forced himself not to interfere – only watching, hand over his mouth, as House stumbled pathetically to the bed and leaned over it, supporting himself on his shaking arms. He even whimpered when Chase's hand settled gently over the angry red mark. "There, see? Now aren't you sorry you didn't listen to me?"

Wilson waited for House to explode with fury, but all he did was laugh. "Oh my God," he groaned after a bit. "One's enough, you were right." He straightened up, slowly.

Chase looked him over, shaking his head. "I can't leave you like this," he sighed at last. "Get on back over there – just the flogger, you like the flogger. Go on."

House limped back over to the wall at once. "I'll go easy," Chase promised. "You tell me if it's too much."

Wilson was on his feet and ready to interfere if his friend showed the least sign of distress at whatever came next, but it seemed that all Chase meant to do was dust the many-tailed leather instrument gently over his back.

House's head rested on the wall and his shoulders dropped. "That's nice, that's fine," he assured after a moment. "You can go harder." It wasn't just his pride speaking, either. Wilson could see the way his body relaxed into the soft, heavy blows, could hear the way his moans turned low and almost sensual when a little more force was put into it.

Chase gradually sharpened up what he was doing. The difference was audible, and though the change in breathing suggested that House could feel it too, it didn't seem to bother him. He hissed against the harder smacks, rolled his shoulders every now and then when one had particular bite, but even as disturbed and worried as Wilson was, he couldn't pretend to think that House was having trouble.

That didn't make it any easier to watch, though. Eventually he shifted his focus to Chase. While the look of intense concentration was reassuring – the kid was being "careful," at least, for whatever that was worth – it was still a little disconcerting to watch him work. The way he loaded up his whole shoulder into some of the blows, crashed that mass of stinging leather deliberately down onto House's bare back…

It was so terribly _violent, _and the weirdest thing was, neither of them seemed to notice.

Eventually Chase set the flogger down, and, perversely enough, _that _was what made House peek over his shoulder and start whining "Hey, no, come on…"

And then Chase picked up the singletail. House made a noise like a frightened puppy, which Wilson thought was certainly the appropriate reaction, even when Chase let his arm fall non-threateningly to his side. The whip still twitched, small dangerous motions like a snake coiling to strike.

"You can take it now," Chase assured. "I'll be careful, I promise."

House faced the wall again, pressing tight to it as though trying to get as far away from the danger as possible. Wilson heard him suck in his breath and moan "Oh God…"

Chase actually laughed. "You're such a huge baby it's unbelievable," he said. "House, come on. I'm not going to hurt you more than you can handle. Trust me. Open your hand when you're ready."

* * *

House took his time and got his breathing under control. When he could, he opened his eyes. His fists were clenched tightly on either side of his head and he steeled himself to open one, just for a second. _Just once, _he promised himself. _Let's not embarrass ourselves – just do it one time, and then you're not a pussy and we're done. You can do it. Here we go._ He held his breath, closed his eyes, and spread his fingers. 

The whish-_crack_, the sudden fiery flare of pain… he squeaked and twisted, waiting for the agony to crescendo into that unbearable-

_Huh… that wasn't so bad._ It crested and was over, much more quickly and much more bearable than before. It faded quickly to throbbing, then to warmth, and he was left wondering what the hell he had been so afraid of.

His shoulders relaxed, and his hands, which had fisted up in that first terrible second, flattened out.

Chase hit him again. "_FFFF-K_! _Mmmmnnnn!!_" He arched hard, head thrown back, sucking air frantically through his nose while he tried to ride out the blow. _Not so bad? Fuck, what the hell were you thinking, not so bad?_

"Fuck? Was that 'fuck'?" Chase was asking behind him. He sounded amused. "Didn't quite catch the second thing, though. I'll go a little lighter."

House laughed breathlessly as the fire subsided. "Fuck you. Mm. Hold on."

"Take your time."

House had been all braced up for another go, but at Chase's advice he hesitated first. He took a moment to appreciate the slow, delicious slide from pain back into non-pain. His back felt raw and hot. He wished he could touch it, just to see what that would feel like. He imagined he would probably like it. After a while he wanted more, another dose of the pulsing heat, and gave the signal without any fear.

* * *

Wilson watched the whole thing. _This is all your fault,_ he told himself. _You should never have gone to the police. You should never have harassed him about the pills. _

He watched House gasp and writhe, and thought: _Some friend. **You **put him through this. _

He watched House absorb each lash, grow still, and willingly call for the next one. _This is how bad it is, _he lectured. _He considers this torture an **improvement.** Think of that the next time you hassle him about taking medication for his pain._

He suffered through the whole session, but then, not wanting to be discovered, left as soon as Chase declared it at an end. He didn't hear House say thanks and collapse in blissful exhaustion onto the bed. He didn't see Chase check the marks carefully for blood and then lay a hand against House's neck (ostensibly to monitor his pulse) until he calmed down enough to dress again.

It probably wouldn't have mattered, though. His mind was made up: this was cruel and awful and couldn't be healthy. This ought to be stopped.

He went to Cuddy.

* * *

TBC. 

Again, apologies for the wait. Let me know what you think so far!! Next chapter we see some evil nasty Tritter.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: In case you're wondering why this story goes so long between updates: I can work on the non-M-rated ones at work, but this one has to wait til I get time at home.

* * *

The next morning, Cuddy was waiting in the conference room with her arms crossed. "House, Chase, could I have a word?" 

Chase didn't look happy. "Should've seen this coming," he muttered to House. " Wilson's a damn snitch."

"Hey," House warned, "Snitches have feelings too. You play nice."

Chase heard the edge under the teasing, and gave a not very sincere apology. With a glare thrown in just for good measure.

When they were all standing in a quiet corner together House took charge. "Dr. Cuddy!" he said brightly. "What can we do for you?"

"I'll tell you what you can _stop _doing," she said sweetly.

"Oh, come on," Chase put in. "That's nobody's business but House's."

"Actually, Dr. Chase, if a hospital employee is assaulting somebody on hospital property, it _is _my business as administrator to see that it stops. _More importantly,_" she said over them, "If one of my doctors is being made to feel uncomfortable during this very trying time, I am going to do everything in my power to ease his mind. Therefore: there will be no more... whatever... here. If it's really that important to you, you can do it on your own time. Understood?"

She was staring at Chase and so he nodded, looking rebellious. They both turned to House. A jerk of his head signaled for Chase to get lost, which he did, and only then did House speak his piece. "Fine: it was stupid to show off for Wilson," he admitted. "But the fact is, it helps."

"Then I'm glad for you," she told him. "But you have to understand I can't have-..." She sighed. "Never mind; you're House and none of this would make sense to you. So let's do it the way we always do: you don't like the rules, but you have to follow them anyway because I sign your paychecks. _No more of that stuff at the hospital_. Do you hear me?"

House dropped his eyes. "Invite him over at night," she suggested, exasperated. "Stop by his place on the way to work. Take a longer lunch if you need it and drive someplace, I don't care. But House..."

"Wilson had no right to get involved in this."

"You're absolutely right, but he's your friend and he worries about you. If he thinks you're not acting in your own best interests, he's going to step in and do it for you... and we all know how well that usually turns out." She sighed, shaking her head. "You really freaked him out this time."

House's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "_You _don't sound all that freaked-out."

"Me, I'd pay money to see that poor kid kick your ass," she laughed. "But I still have to take Wilson's concerns seriously. For one thing, he says he'll go over my head if I don't. So: no more screwing around at work. Not unless you can guarantee me that there won't be any more complaints."

"You mean unless I talk to him."

"Yes, that's generally how human beings convey their-"

"The hell with him. The hell with _all _of you. I'm not going to beg. I'll figure this out on my own."

She watched his back as he stormed off. She was satisfied - now it was a matter of pride for him. She had no idea what new and even more outlandish measures House would adopt, but she was sure there would be no more S&M at work.

* * *

The rest of the day didn't go well for House at all. He'd planned for a long gap in his pills, figuring he could rely on Chase to get him through it. With that out of the question, and his mood all shot to hell, and his firefighter in need of a diagnosis, he had to drop the schedule and take pills early. The leg was bad today. And the knowledge that he'd be spending the night almost dry made it worse. He took more to get him through the afternoon – so many, in fact, that he ran through his daily allowance by three o'clock. _Nice one, G, _he thought as the last pill went down the hatch. 

By five the pain was licking at him again already, and he knew he wasn't leaving the office tonight. There would be no guarantee he could get back in tomorrow if he did. Besides, if he left he might end up calling Chase to plead for a distraction, and that would be embarrassing. Not to mention it would freak the kid out bigtime, which might in turn impact his future willingness to whack people. _And _it would turn him all insufferably pitying.

No – there was nothing he could do that would make this evening anything less than completely miserable. It was one of the bad days, days that would ordinarily incapacitate him even _with _a buttload of hydrocodone in his system. Without the drugs, all he could do was crash here, not move a muscle, and sleep through as many hours of it as he could. In the morning as soon as the drug test was over, he could start medicating himself again. Afterwards he'd have to figure out a better course of action – once his brain was capable of thoughts beyond _stoppit stoppit please dammit stoppit no please_.

He stretched out on the floor of his office to hide, and put the lights out. This way people would think he had gone home, and he could be miserable in private. He put music on and judged one unscheduled Vicodin to be an acceptable risk and did his best to doze off.

* * *

He woke up in agony… and in silence. The album had ended and the ipod turned off. He must have slept for a while, then. Good. Maybe it was late. Maybe even two or three AM. He could be more than halfway there. 

He brought his watch to his face and read: 6:30. He melted with relief – he'd slept the whole night, and now it was almost-…

6:30_PM_.

He'd hardly slept an hour.

"Fuck no." He whispered it aloud, then rolled his eyes at himself. _Very useful. Very mature. Stop whining and start problem-solving_. Half a pill, he decided, that was the answer. Just half. He shifted to get his hand into his pocket and caught his breath hard. No – a movement that hurt that much was worth a whole pill at least. Unless he wanted to lie with his hand in his pocket all night, unable to stomach the idea of shifting again to curl back up onto his side.

Last one, and then he could sleep, and then when he woke up it would be over.

* * *

House awoke to the sound of sharp rapping on his office door. He opened his eyes and it was light. Morning. There was an empty pill bottle about two inches from his nose. He shifted a little, a searing pain shot up his right side, and everything came back to him at once. 

He'd had half a dozen pills left at last count, and now he had zero. Well. It had been stupid to run through his pills early yesterday, but he wasn't really angry at himself for what he'd done during the night. It was in fact amazing he'd had the presence of mind to do something so useful as take pills anyway. _Not your fault, _he told himself grimly. _What did you want to do, sit and scream for help_?

By now Tritter had tired of waiting and had come into the office on his own. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you, Dr. House; it's almost ten-thirty."

House dragged himself into a sitting position and looked up. There would be no point in delaying this; better to get it over with as quickly as possible without thinking much. Then maybe somebody would give him some morphine so he could enjoy a few pain-free hours before they hauled him off to a cell.

"You win," he said shortly. "There's no way I'm going to pass this one." He straightened his leg carefully and then drew his other knee up so that he could rest his head on it. "I slept here last night. Right here. Couldn't even make it to a couch."

A long moment passed. "I see. And I don't care. Get up and come into the men's room."

House's head shot up. "Didn't you hear me? I said I can't possibly test clean! Get the hell out of here - you've won. Go do your victory dance somewhere else." He went into his jacket pocket and fished out his lucky pill - the one from Christmas Eve. It was for emergencies, for desperate times - which this clearly was. He tossed it back and waited for it to kick in.

While he sat, hurting almost too badly to breathe, his right hand found his thigh and started the familiar, futile rubbing that reason said should have some calming effect but never did...

Five, ten minutes passed and the pain eventually gave up enough ground that he could think. He'd blown it this time, really blown it. Maybe he could pretend the conversation never happened? Claim that his jailer had just not shown up this morning... Stacy would know what to do. He ought to call Stacy. Or at least get Cuddy to do it for him.

He opened his eyes at last and jumped - Tritter was still sitting there, not having made a sound or moved a muscle. "What are you- I said get out," House panted. "Show's over."

"I have a backstage pass."

The idea that he was sitting here suffering on the floor for Tritter's amusement made him sick. He scrambled around to his knees and hauled himself upright using his desk, then stood collapsed over it, sweat dripping down onto all his papers. Gross. He wanted to straighten, but he probably-

"Here." Tritter was beside him, holding out his cane. "Let's go."

"What the hell's the rush!" House snapped. "It doesn't matter, nothing matters anymore – I'm _not clean_!"

"I heard you the first time. But we both know that the longer you stall, the more likely you'll _test _clean. You're an addict – an addict _doctor – _and you clearly know how to play the system. God knows what kinds of diuretics you've taken. We're an hour late as it is. Come on – start walking."

"Can't."

"Don't be cute," Tritter said, shaking his head. "Whatever you call it... limping? Start limping."

House didn't look at him. "Not-… being cute. I said I can't."

"You haven't tried."

So he snatched the cane and took a step with it. His leg gave out at once and he pitched forward...

But didn't hit the ground - Tritter had caught him and was holding him up. "Come on - stand."

"Get the hell off me."

"Put your arm around my shoulders... that's right."

"Go to hell," House gasped, but cooperated because the alternative was to try and fight free, which would definitely not get him anywhere. He let himself be half-carried to the bathroom, and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. That was bad. He folded over, clutching his leg, and tried not to cry out.

The sealed plastic cup was thrust into his hand and he stared at it stupidly.

"Jacket off, shirt up, pants down," Tritter droned above him. "You know the drill."

Yes, he did know the drill... two long weeks of it, in fact. Two weeks he'd let himself be mocked and stared at... two weeks he'd had to pee on command, even the most servile pets on the planet wouldn't pee on command... two weeks he'd scrimped on his Vicodin, cutting the dosage so that he was never comfortable and often in intense pain...

And now, once he took that cup and handed over his poisonous urine sample, it was all for nothing.

All _that_, for nothing.

All that.

Blame it on the pain, the embarrassment, the night spent on the floor or the realization that his entire ordeal had been pointless, but House lost it all of a sudden and started to cry. Silently and helplessly. He sat shaking his head, tears pouring down his cheeks, unable to get control again if his life depended on it. He couldn't stop, couldn't think. Didn't even try. He just cried.

After a few moments he felt the cup yanked out of his hand. He heard the plastic unwrapping, heard a belt, a fly. Heard the sound of someone whizzing into a cup, and didn't register until it was over.

He looked up just in time to see Tritter zip up again, without a word, and set the full frothing cup down on the floor.

House just stared stupidly and hardly heard the instructions: "Fill this jar to line A. The other to line B. And don't say I never gave you any chances."

House waited a little longer before he picked up the cup, afraid it was just his mind playing a cruel joke on him. But no, he decided when he finally dared reach for it: it was real – and not his. Clean. He swallowed and started pouring and sealing. He knew he had to say something and was halfway through comparing sticker numbers when he finally settled on what. Not everything the guy was hoping for, perhaps, but it would be sincere at least. "About that thermometer," he began slowly, voice still rough with the pain. "I still say you deserved it… but it was a nasty thing to do and I should have apologized afterwards. I had no right to keep being as ass to you. I'm sorry."

* * *

Tritter left the building that day with a great big smile on his face. Sometimes things changed... but some things never would. For example: addicts would always be stupid.

* * *

TBC. 

Next chapter will have a juicy bit, and we'll get to see Wilson start to come around. After all, he always wises up eventually… _after _he's made a royal pain of himself by getting all paternal and know know _knowing _he knows best.

And man, Tritter is a jerk. A smart, patient, vindictive jerk.

Let me know what you think so far!


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: I think that without somebody else's problems to obsess over, Wilson becomes very broody. I also think that he and House need to start making up.

* * *

The next day Tritter showed up at 9 on the dot. "I've decided I owe you an apology, Dr. House," he said, calm and sure of himself as ever. "I misjudged you." 

House looked up, shock written all over his face. "Uh..."

"I used to think you were just an addict."

Though House wished he could pretend not to care in the least what Tritter thought of him, he felt so superlatively vindicated he just _had _to hear it said. "And now?"

"Now," Tritter answered, "I think you're an addict in a lot of pain. I'm sorry for that. Nobody - even a smug, powertripping jackass - deserves what you go through." His smile was almost gentle. "But I'm still going to see you in a cell someday."

It was a moment before House could recapture his attitude problem and sneer: "The hell you are - I'm halfway there and I can do this."

"You couldn't do it yesterday."

Another silence. "Yesterday's history," House said finally. "Through, I don't know, the grace of God or something, I tested clean. I won't be cutting it that close again."

"No, you didn't."

House blinked. "What?"

"You didn't. Test clean." Tritter toyed with the tennis ball on the desk as he explained: "You got away with whatever was in _your _system, yes. But you only tested clean... if... _I_ didn't take anything to make you fail."

House let a long moment go by. When the dizziness had passed and he managed to think again, he said: "And yet I don't hear you gloating."

"Oh, no - I'm not going to gloat," Tritter assured with a smile. "I'm just not going to tell you. You won't know til the lawyers show up with the results at the end of the month. You'll worry yourself sick about it, every day, until then."

"Woooo, I better look out, you're threatening me with _torturous _uncertainty," House scoffed. "Except for one thing: I don't believe you. If you'd doped you'd tell me right away - because then I'd _really _be screwed. It's only if you _didn't _dope that you'd have to play psych games with _pretend _despair, because you can't actually stick me with the real thing."

He watched Tritter's face carefully, but Tritter gave nothing away. "Believe what you want."

"Good - I will."

"And stick to your dosage schedule in the meantime," Tritter advised. "In case yesterday's clean, you don't want to ruin your record. You'll spend two more weeks in pain, sleeping on the floor of your office... if you can call that _sleeping_, it didn't look very restful to me... rubbing at that spot you just... can't... reach..." He paused a moment to enjoy the look of white-hot hatred House was turning on him. "... And if, after two weeks of that, you still end up in jail because yesterday's test was dirty... at least you'll know you tried your best."

House looked away, counted to five. "So you screwed me."

"No." Tritter laughed softly. "But it wouldn't matter if I said I did. Everybody lies, right? You'd still kill yourself to keep clean, on the off chance I was lying and you still had a shot." He waited while House thought. "You won't know. And hard as you'll try not to, you _will _hope." He looked out towards the hallway, the bathroom. "Shall we?"

* * *

Some time later, House kicked the door to the balcony open and stepped out. "Guy's got a series of heart attacks," he said loudly to Wilson, pretending not to notice that Wilson was perched on the wall between patios or that Wilson was smoking. "With no proof of any kind as to cause, I'm saying I think they're caused by his being in love. Then, again without proof, I start to think his _being in love _is itself a symptom. It can't be real – the girl's _way_ ugly," he added, stepping closer. 

"Would this _way ugly _girl perchance be Amy, the gorgeous firefighter chick whose praises you've been singing for the past week or so?"

"Yep. False memories _created _the love," House explained more seriously. He snapped up the cigarette from Wilson's fingers and took a drag. "Still no idea what created the false memories, but I'm thinking – a stretch, I'm sure – it's neurological. So in essence what I'm thinking of doing is digging around in this guy's _brain _because he's having unexplained heart attacks." He sucked in another lungful of smoke and expelled it slowly. "That make sense, or have I been detoxing too long?" When Wilson opened his mouth to answer, House stuck the cigarette between his lips and asked, "And what's with the cancer stick?"

Wilson took a long drag and didn't cough. "You seem to find such comfort in your addiction that I thought I'd pick up one of my own."

"Mmm." House put his back to the wall, braced his hands on it, and hauled himself up to sit. His brow creased but he mostly kept the pain off his face. "Well, you do realize that if I represent good and Tritter represents evil, by choosing to imitate his addiction instead of mine you've set yourself irrevocably on the path of darkness. Forever."

"I did consider that. And then I decided the risk of lung cancer was far preferable to what happens when a Vicodin habit goes awry."

All the fun left House's tone at once. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture."

Wilson ran his hand through his hair, seemingly unaware that the lit cigarette in his hand could make this dangerous. "House, Tritter says you spent the other night in your office – on the floor."

"Tritter's got a big mouth," House snapped, then tried to wave it off. "He's just trying to freak you out - I'm fine."

"He had to _carry _you to the bathroom."

"He's a liar."

"Right, I must have been mistaken. Must've been some other guy who looks just like you, carried by some other guy who looks just like him. That's who I must have seen. Of course."

"Forget it," House said shortly. "I told you, I'm fine and it's none of your business. Now just give me an answer about the digging-around-in-the-brain thing." He gestured for the cigarette and Wilson passed it to him.

"It… sounds okay to me," Wilson said after a bit. "For whatever that's worth. Will you answer me a question about yesterday?"

"No."

Wilson asked it anyway. "Would Chase have helped?"

"Probably." House stared at the glowing cigarette butt in his hand, and thought of what Tritter had done. He meant to brace up against the memory, take a drag of cigarette, and then tell Wilson.

Instead, some wires crossed. He took a deep breath to brace up, then forgot what it was for and instead put the cigarette out against his forearm. He stared dully at the perfect circle and said, "Ow."

"House!" Wilson hopped down and snatched his arm.

House didn't pull away. "It was an accident," he said wearily. He enjoyed one delicious painless moment before his arm started to throb.

"I was distracted," he added, staring at the top of Wilson's head while Wilson stared at the burn. "Because yesterday I'd taken too many pills to pass the drug screen. I told Tritter. He peed in the cup for me."

Wilson's grip around his wrist was suddenly tight enough to hurt. "Wh- y- you turned in someone else's urine sample as your own? _Tritter's_?"

"Yeah."

"A- And he _let _you?"

"He offered."

"Why would he-..." Horror dawned. "Unless he took something!"

"Yeah - this morning he said _maybe _he did."

Wilson was silent for a while. Gradually he calmed down enough to let go of House's wrist and climb back up on the wall. "Even _you _wouldn't be that much of a bastard. I guess… we can hope… he's just getting his kicks freaking you out?"

"True. But if he doped he could get that same kick, with the added bonus of sending me to jail afterwards. And all it would take is a couple of bong rips before this whole thing started. Maybe he's been prepared the whole time."

"Or maybe he was clean and yesterday was just a favor, only he had to put an evil spin on it today because God _forbid _anyone ever accuse him of doing anything nice." Wilson shot him a look. "You two actually have more in common than you realize."

"Hopefully." House eased himself down to the floor, and they both pretended not to notice how hard it was. "So you think I should dig around in the firefighter's brain, and keep restricting my meds in the meantime? Not that I think that's a particularly good combination."

"Go ahead with the brain, hold back on the pills, and… I've been thinking," Wilson said without inflection.

"Brooding," House corrected, and tried to leave.

"I was wrong," he said quickly.

House didn't even miss a step. "You often are. Forget it, it's okay. See ya."

"House. I have Doritos…"

Pause. "Nacho Cheese or Cooler Ranch?"

Wilson was amazed that it _mattered_. "Uh, Nacho Cheese, I think."

"Fine – that buys you thirty seconds," House declared, with his hand already on the door. "If you yell or cry I'm reducing it to fifteen."

Wilson didn't waste any time. "You're a stubborn idiot," he said immediately. "Simultaneously very proud and very whiny... which makes it difficult to know how much pain you're actually in. Sometimes I think that's not an accident... I should probably thank you. I have a hard enough time coping with what I _do _see." He took a breath, let it out, made a helpless gesture. "Anyway, Chase's thing..." he continued at last, "I guess I don't like it mainly because I can't... minimize it, or hide from it, or whatever else you usually let me do. And I've been sitting here trying to make myself understand how childish that is."

House figured no answer was required, and went again to open the door.

"It's not just me who noticed," Wilson called after him, stopping him once more. "People walk by your office, they can _hear _that. They can _see _it, if they try hard enough."

"Well, don't worry - it won't be an issue anymore." Silence. House frowned at getting no answer. "Will it?"

Wilson looked pained. "_My _office isn't made of glass," he offered reluctantly.

House's eyes flickered to his face for just a second. "Thanks."

"But _don't _throw it in my face again," he said with force. After a moment, he managed a smile and added, "You dumped me, remember? That means you've forfeited the right to torture me without mercy."

House cocked his head. "How about the right to make you get lunch?"

"I wish." Wilson hopped down from the wall effortlessly and followed him inside. "The world _inalienable _comes to mind."

* * *

TBC. 

Hope everybody's having a great holiday so far!


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: sorry this took so long. there's a juicy bit though!

* * *

Chase hesitated, credit card already in his hand. "Are you sure this is all right?" he murmured. "If Wilson really wanted you to use his office, he'd have left you a key." 

"He'd give me a key if I asked," House explained, "But since he doesn't want to _know _about it, asking could be kind of difficult. Besides, Wilson's _my _problem. Just do it."

Years of pointers from Foreman had paid off, and Chase got the office unlocked in half a minute. They hurried inside, shut the door behind them, and locked it. House let out his breath. "So... ?"

"So, first tell me how you are," Chase said as he took off his coat and bag. "Has anything healed all the way yet?"

House shook his head. There would be no point lying - the kid had eyes, after all. He still sported singletail marks all over his back, and plenty of bruises south of the equator.

Chase nodded. "I figured. I'm not going to hit you on sore spots you already have - that'll just make you miserable - so I stopped and picked up something new on the way over here. It's perfect for your inner thighs. Only the left one, of course."

House was intrigued. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's sensitive there. You wouldn't believe the results you get with just a ruler or a wooden spoon or something."

"Fine by me." House got out of his jeans and then sat on Wilson's couch. He hoped Chase didn't have any reservations about beating a guy when he's down, because it was already a bad morning and he really didn't feel like standing for half an hour right now.

"Lie back and close your eyes," Chase directed.

"And the weapon of the day is…?"

"Not telling." Chase held his bag behind his back. "It's more fun if you don't know."

House thought it over, then (after a deathly glare) reached for his jeans and dropped them on his head. His leg was killing him and his stomach knotted with the cold dread of Tritter's plot and he thought he was prepared to do basically _anything _Chase said to make it all go away. "There," he said, muffled through layers of denim. "Can't see a thing."

"Good." He could sense Chase moving through the room, and heard him pull up a chair. The jeans over his face shifted, freeing his mouth up to breathe. "Okay, bend your leg… yeah, perfect. Are you comfortable like this?"

With his right leg stretched out and his left knee raised, resting against the back of the couch, he was about as comfortable as he was going to get. He gave a thumbs-up in Chase's general direction and then settled back, exhaling the tension out of his body.

"Pardon me," Chase said brightly as he tugged at the leg of House's boxers.

"Hey – wedgies aren't part of the deal."

"I need to see what I'm doing. I'm working quite close to someplace you'd rather not be hit."

House tensed a little – it hadn't even crossed his mind. "In that case, wedgie away."

"All right… this is what it's going to feel like:" A light, sharp sting hit him just above the knee.

House jumped, then tried to figure out the sensation. "Feels like… a couple of somethings, not just one- _whoa_!"

"Sorry. I'm not going to warn you every time. Just assume that at any given moment, you're about to be hit."

House laughed. The sting came again. It was sharper than a slap, small and hot and mean, but it faded quickly and he was fine.

Of course, as Chase went methodically up and down his leg, it was only a matter of time before every one was layered on top of ones that were already there. Then it became truly hard to bear. The smacks came fast and constant, whipping back and forth over his sensitized skin so quickly he could hardly tell one sting from the next. Chase was keeping to a rhythm so at least there were no surprises, but that was only small consolation.

By the fourth trip up from his knee, it hurt badly enough to drown out the leg, the cop, the embarrassment of having had to answer the question _D'you need help this morning? _in the affirmative. None of that could even cross his mind just now. He hurt completely.

"How are you doing?" Chase's voice startled him.

"_Ah _I don't know," he breathed. He tried to figure it out. He was squirming and gripping the couch cushions. He could hear himself simultaneously whimpering and laughing.

Then several in a row fell on the exact same spot and he babbled "Ow- come on _come on _come on" in sudden panic. Same spot again, over and over, and it didn't even occur to him to try and be stoic about it. "Ow ow no _hey _ow Chase no-"

Suddenly his wrist was grabbed, and he realized he had been moving his hand up to block the blows. "_Ah_sorry ow _ah_ no…"

"You need to stop?" The blows slowed and lightened… but all still all in that same spot.

He knew Chase was barely touching him, _knew _it was just something flicking gently over his skin and certainly no big deal, but _still. _He had to fight the urge to run away. "No?"

"Okay." Chase left the hurt place alone and hit a little higher up, then a little lower. House sighed aloud with relief and felt himself melt into the couch cushions.

Of course, Chase did go back and hit the bad spot again later. He snickered when it produced a noise that was almost a sob. "You're never going to believe what this is," he said.

"Well it should be… illegal, whatever it- _mmm!_ Tschh – OW!" House was laughing again, with no idea why.

"Sensitive there?"

House could hear the smile in his voice. "Shut up – _I'm _only one allowed to _aah _find this funny. Dammit. God!"

"Trust me, it's even funnier on this end. Does it really hurt?"

It took effort to keep the target leg still while he writhed, but House was managing. And laughing. And hurting, all at the same time. "Fuckyou… no, I'm just screaming for _fun_… it doesn't hurt at _all_."

"You're not screaming – yet," Chase pointed out. He dropped back to light gentle tapping over an area that _didn't _feel like it was about to burst into flames, so that House could think. "Can you go for another minute?" A hand brushed over the big ouch. "Here?"

House took a deep breath. One minute – practically nothing. One more breath. He was glad to have jeans folded over his head because he thought he probably couldn't go through with it if he had to watch. He nodded. "Okay."

He regretted it the moment the first blow cut across his skin. "Ow _jeez_!" he gasped as they rained down, fast and sharp and hard. For a while he tried to hold his breath and keep silent, but eventually he burst out: "Fuck _fuck _ah!" anyway.

"Doing fine," Chase droned. "That's… fifteen seconds down, forty-five to go."

"_WHAT_!" House surged up, got his wrist grabbed.

"Sorry, sorry, read the clock wrong. That was… _nineteen_ seconds down. Forty-one to go... Thirty-six, now."

He lost it, started laughing again. It felt like fireworks against his skin. In his brain. Flashes of light and heat seared through him with every tap, confusing him to the point where he forgot to fight it or even dislike it.

He was vaguely aware of Chase telling him it was almost over. Ten seconds left. The idea mystified him. _It's going to **stop?**_ He thought._But that's impossible, that makes no sense._ A last, huge, blistering explosion. Then quiet.

He started breathing again, surprised to realize that he hadn't been. He turned his head lazily to the side and shook the jeans out of his way.

Squinting against the light, he could just make out Chase's amused expression. "How you doing?" As though somehow aware that House was just about to start shivering, Chase tossed him his coat.

House curled up underneath it, and moved slowly to press a hand against his leg. He didn't think he'd ever felt skin this warm, never in his life, not even in patients with lifethreatening fever. "Wow," he answered. "What the hell _was _that?"

Chase showed him.

"You're kidding."

* * *

Wilson's key was already in the lock when he realized his office light was on. 

He grimaced. Trust House not to waste time - not twenty four hours after he'd given them permission to use his office, and already they were probably in the middle of something that-

He braced up for a scene of blood and carnage, and opened his door.

They had gone already, leaving behind no blood. No carnage. In fact, the only evidence that anybody had been there at all was that two empty coffee cups had been left on his desk... and about half a bag of Twizzlers had been scattered over his floor.

He sighed, cleaned up the mess, and then went next door to see how the differential was going.

* * *

When Tritter walked in, everybody was clustered by the wall staring at MRI films. "House: there's no tumor," Wilson said. It didn't sound like it was for the first time. 

"There's _something_," House murmured.

"No - there's not," Foreman snapped. "For the thousandth time - his brain's cleaner than yours!"

"Brains don't just _make up_ false memories for no reason," House argued, gesturing accusingly with a Twizzler. "You're the neurologist. _Something's_ there. Find it." They all stared some more. House shot Foreman a pointed look, and Foreman turned on his heel and left the crowd.

"What do you want me to say?" he snarled. "That there _should _be something? Yeah, there should. But guess what: there's not. _I_ see what _you_ see - what Wilson sees, what Chase and Cameron see: no tumor! No little green men running around the hippocampus and, and poking his amygdala with sharp sticks. There's nothing. Nothing that could even remotely be-"

"Dr. House," Tritter interrupted quietly.

House ignored it. "We could try to get another scan and-"

"Dr. House!"

House finally turned to face him. "You're going to have to wait a minute," he said curtly. "We've put too much time into this guy. Go kill someone else's patient."

He turned back to the wall, studied it some more, and tried to ignore Wilson's elbow digging into his chest. "Give it up, House," Wilson hissed. "You know there's nothing there; you're just doing this to get under Tritter's skin-"

"No," House corrected, "I'm doing this because _there's something wrong._" He squinted at the scan again. "No tumor, fine. But there's slight hypoperfusion. That's got to be it, then. We should test for-"

"Clotting time and LB function," Chase cut him off grimly. "And anything else we can think of to explain why his brain's being starved of blood and why it's rewriting history for him. While _you _go and do your thing, before you get yourself thrown in prison."

House made a brief halfhearted effort to stare him down, but when Chase didn't blink he gave up and just followed Tritter out of the office. Although he _did _look back to call over his shoulder: "You had better have something for me when I get back!" As they made their way to the bathroom, he started thinking aloud. "Checking his clotting time is pointless," he muttered. "He gets hurt all the time and he's in and out of hospitals... if his blood wasn't normal, somebody would have noticed by now. So what does that leave?"

Out of habit he was looking over to his companion while he talked, and Tritter popped his eyebrows up. "Are you asking me?"

"No. Just stand there looking engaged but clueless - I'm used to it." House barged into the bathroom and started pacing. "We know it's nothing _obvious_; firefighters must get physicals every ten minutes. It's got to be something nobody noticed."

"Dr. House."

"Yeah yeah, sorry, sorry." House lay his cane across the sinks and started on his jacket. "There's no point, anyway, until I get the latest test results. Maybe Foreman'll find something I can use. What? What're you looking at?"

"Just thinking how much better you look today than yesterday. And the day before."

"I watched cartoons this morning," House sneered. "And you know what they always say: laughter's the best medicine." He could have killed the cop for interrupting his train of thought... not that the train seemed to be going anywhere useful yet.

"Oh." When Tritter saw the vivid pink of House's thigh his eyes lit up. "That's why. You're not a masochist," he realized. "You've just been... fighting fire with fire."

"Yes. I'd prefer to fight fire with a fire extinguisher... or, if that's too abstract for your tiny little cop brain, to fight a _medical condition_ with _medicine_... but seeing as you've made that impossible-"

"Tuck your shirt up, Doctor." Tritter had registered the slight change in House's voice, the hint of defensiveness, and was all ready to rub his face in it. "So who does it? That's pretty fresh, it must be somebody here at the hospital. I'd have thought you'd go more for a total stranger. Because as much as you hate being touched - and presumably, being hit - you hate _needing _people more. So who would you-"

"Cup. Now. Let's go. Or I will _so _pee on you."

"The obvious answer is Dr. Wilson." Tritter handed over the cup and watched House's face carefully. "Apparently he'll do anything for you – lie to the police, give up his job, risk his only-"

"It's not Wilson," House said, almost disgusted. " Wilson's useless."

"Tell that to his patients. Do you know how many phone calls I got when his practice shut down?" Tritter gave him an angelic smile. "Nobody called about _you_, though. Strange, isn't it? You think you're so important, but... when you don't do your job... nobody even misses you."

"That's because when I don't do my job, there's nobody _to _miss me. Because my patients _die_," House snarled. He pulled his pants up. "Gimme the jars."

"Here. A, B." Tritter handed them over, then continued: "Dr. Wilson's patients die all the time. And still they-"

"Would you shut up about Wilson!" House was rushing through the packaging procedures. "Yes - he's warm and fuzzy. He's _great _if you are dying of cancer. But if you're..." He froze. "Not... dying... of cancer..."

Tritter didn't know him well enough to recognize the look. "Hello?"

House snapped back to reality in a second. "Phone," he snapped. "I need your phone. Hurry up. Mine's in the conference room."

"Are you used to people jumping to obey when you behave that way?" Tritter asked placidly. "Because I'm not going to. I'd have thought you knew that by now."

"Gimme your damn _phone_!" House lurched to his feet, thoroughly worked up. "Our guy has a tumor. Come on. Give."

"Then it's fortunate Dr. Wilson is on the case, isn't it." Tritter nodded back to the jars and box and tape. "Walk out now and I promise you I _will _introduce drugs into that sample. You can go _once we are finished here_. He's not going to die in the next two minutes, is he?"

"I know what's wrong. I need to tell them." House no longer sounded angry. Now he was begging, low and intense.

"No. You can wait two minutes."

"Come on! The call takes one _second_, what do you care?"

Tritter just shrugged.

"But-..." He looked around as though for help. "Fine: I'll trade you for it," he offered quickly. "Gimme your phone. You can have whatever you want, you can... I don't know, hit me or something. Whatever you want."

Tritter heaved a sigh and started ticking points off on his fingers. "I want you to apologize… for everything. I want you to say you were wrong - and mean it. I want to know who's been beating you and how they talked you into it. And... I want you to tell me what it's like... to wake up... and realize that the woman you love has ruined you for life." He broke eye contact to fish out his gum and pop another piece. "Then I'll give you my phone so you can tell everybody how clever you are." House was looking at the floor, so Tritter nodded, satisfied, and finished: "Or, you can behave yourself and wait two more minutes like I told you."

Any idiot could hear that it wasn't supposed to be a real offer… but House had never been any idiot. He shrugged and gestured for the phone.

* * *

TBC. 

Talk to me!


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Not sure about frying Tritter in oil with breadcrumbs, Mourningwillow. He doesn't deserve to be that tasty. Unless we say: breadcrumbs scraped off 3-day-old carnival fishsticks, and oil wrung from the hair of long-dead car salesmen.

Actually though, I think I'm hating him less than I used to. I think I'm giving House a bigger share of responsibility for their little feud. Tritter was - at first - pretty reasonable in his demands.

* * *

"Dr. House Tells All," House announced into a pretend microphone. He took a deep breath. "First: the alternative PT comes courtesy of Chase," he began confidently. "It was his idea the first time, I have no idea what prompted him to suggest it, and I went along because I was _that_ desperate. As to the waking-up-ruined-for-life thing..." his smile was wicked. "Thanks for playing... but the waking up was easy. I don't know if I had guessed it going in, or registered things while I was comatose, or what... but I woke up having already accepted that I was never going to walk again. Of course I was furious at Stacy for making such a stupid decision. But I wasn't..." he pretended to wipe away a tear and made his voice shake. "_Shocked and betrayed and wounded_... Or whatever you were hoping to hear. And I'm sorry for everything. There. Gimme your phone." 

Tritter took his phone out but held onto it. "That's not all you owe me."

"True. But the other thing requires sincerity," House reminded, "Which you're not going to get while I'm bouncing off the walls. _Gimme the damn phone_." He heaved a sigh, licked his lips, and managed the word. "Please."

Tritter gave it to him and stood by patiently while House dialed Chase's cell and explained his idea. "It's House. I _told _you there was a tumor! Spinal meningioma... pushes against-... yup. It's a hell of a roundabout way to broken heart syndrome, but it does fit. Set him up for a selective vertebral angiography. I'll be there in a minute. Oh, and Chase?" he added, making a face in Tritter's direction. "Save this phone number; it's going on every telemarketing list in the country."

"Now," Tritter said once House had hung up. "Let's hear it. You were wrong about...? Something significant."

"Hmm. I was going to say: _I was wrong about YOU,_ but that would imply that you're significant. Mmm... Okay. Speaking of comas and informed consent: I was wrong to lie to Coma Guy."

"Coma Guy...? Oh. You mean Gabirel Wozniak - the man you _killed_ in Atlantic City."

House bristled but didn't flinch from the word. "I didn't kill him, I helped him _kill himself_. Huge difference." When Tritter didn't argue the point, he continued, "Coma Guy asked whether he had time to say goodbye to his son before he turned back into a vegetable. I told him no." House started pacing, leaning heavily on the cane. "Fact is we probably would have made it. But then he'd relapse... on the road, in the hospital, whatever... and we'd lose the heart."

"Why?" Tritter asked. "I'm told the death and transfer went very well... almost as if they were all orchestrated by a _doctor_... but I'll bet it would've been even smoother if you did it in a hospital."

House snorted. "People in a coma are still _alive._ And it's against hospital policy to kill patients for their organs... they think it might present an obstacle to patient recruitment, or something."

"So you figured: screw the hospital policy. I'll kill him myself."

House didn't look away. "I figured it was our best chance to get his son a heart," he said bluntly, then shrugged. "Wilson tells me I lied to spare Coma Guy a choice that..." He rolled his eyes and let Tritter hear the quotation marks around it: "_nobody should have to make for themselves_."

"I'm sure you did." Tritter's smile was a little mocking, House's was a little sad.

"Well, Wilson had said the same thing about Stacy," House explained. "And I told him I could make my own damn choices, and that I wanted to kill her. So when he said it about me and Coma Guy..." he shrugged. "That's when I realized... maybe I was wrong."

"Wilson had a point though: it's hard, sometimes, for people to act in their own best interests."

House blinked. "Why do I feel like there's a dig in there?"

"No, no dig." Tritter's eyes were wide and innocent. "How could there be? Nothing _you _do is self-destructive."

"You, either," House answered at once, just as pleasantly. "Smoking is actually _good _for you. All that stuff they teach you in school about lung cancer - that's just more of Wilson's lies."

"I haven't had a cigarette in two years." Tritter's voice was smug and serene but that didn't prove anything. House stepped up suddenly, pressed his face into the policeman's collar, and inhaled.

"Hmm. You have a cat," he observed after a moment, "And you've been hanging around at the beach - in the _winter, _what kind of weirdo does _that_? - but you don't smoke."

"No."

"But you _do _chew the gum," House pointed out. "Nicotine is nicotine. So you're still an addict. _And _a hypocrite."

"I don't have a problem with your being _dependent _on your pain pills, House, I have a problem with your lying, cheating, and stealing to get more of them."

House sniffed loudly. "Do you smell that? I know that smell." Sniff. "It smells like..." Sniff. "Like... like _rationalization_, doesn't it?" House grinned at him. "You use a mind-altering chemical recreationally and you can't stop. And look how _annoyed _you're getting when I talk about it! Aww, poor baby."

"Don't push it," Tritter warned softly. "You know I'll push back."

House felt himself swallow.

"Go do your selective whatever-it-is scan before you actually manage to piss me off."

* * *

House and his team found the tumor and sent their firefighter into surgery. When they'd finished high-fiving each other over solving the case, though, boredom set in. 

The team basked in it, taking a three-hour lunch and digging out their crossword puzzle books.

House, though, was not nearly so happy. The rush faded quickly this time, and he soon wanted a pill. He was fairly sure he didn't _need _one just yet, and certainly didn't want to take one early. So he paced for a while and it still hurt. He sat down to do paperwork instead, resigning himself to being miserable, and it hurt more.

Eventually he went down to the clinic to take it out on someone else. He crossed his fingers that his patient would either 1: have an interesting condition, or 2: not mind being yelled at and not be a cop.

His first patient turned out to be a beautiful and friendly female of 22. He was glad... at first, anyway.

As soon as he closed the door behind him she unzipped her pants without preamble and asked, "Would you look at this?"

"Sure," he said as she turned sideways and hiked her lacy blue panties up above her hip.

And then he was a bit less glad. "Do you know what that is?" she asked, pouting a little. "It's gross, and I also have it... you know..." She gestured to herself in a way that made House wish he _didn't _know. "I think I must have an STD."

"You don't have it anywhere else?" he asked as he took a look. Not a pleasing visual. "It's not an STD."

"Nowhere else. What is it?"

"Is your boyfriend a wrestler?"

"I don't have a boyfriend." Pause. "My brother's a wrestler, though. What's the rash?"

House's eyebrows went up. "How old?"

"He's turning fourteen. I don't live with him though. Look, I can't have some kind of wrestling disease, I don't-"

"Do you have a phone?" House asked while he made notes in her chart. "Call him up." She asked why, but he wouldn't tell her. Eventually she gave in and made the call.

"Bobby? Hi, what's up. Yeah, listen, I'm at the doctor's, and-"

House snatched the phone. "Helloooo, Bobby!" he said brightly. "I'm Dr. House. Yes, hi. We need to know which of your sister's underwear you tried on while she was home for the holidays. Seriously."

"_What_?" she shrieked.

House ignored her. "Because you gave her ringworm, you moron! ... Yeah? Well she'll be _more _mad if she grows _another _round of fungus where she-"

"_What!_" Even louder. "_Fungus_?!_"_

"Yeah yeah, just spill. Uh-huh. That it? Okay, thanks, have a wonderful day." He hung up and told the girl, "We'll get you an antifungal and that'll go away. In the meantime, you need to go wash your pink striped panties, the matching pink bra, and your black stockings." He didn't even try to keep a straight face.

And he was glad to be on mostly speaking terms with Wilson again, because this was the kind of story that was _totally _worth sharing.

* * *

TBC. 

Next chapter will probably be longer.

Thanks to everybody who commented last time. I'm glad the twizzlers amused you!


	15. Chapter 15

"How much you wanna bet you can't give up that gum for a week?" House challenged when Tritter popped his second piece of the morning.

"No."

"Why? _I can quit whenever I want, _isn't that what you smokers always say? Time to prove it… or are you too chicken?" House felt like the childish taunting might have more force once his pants weren't down, so he waited til he was all zipped up before continuing, "You're afraid to try, because you _know _you don't have the stones to go even a week. That's pathetic." It was incredibly difficult to get a rise out of Tritter without a rectal thermometer, but he didn't give up. "Even _I _could go a week on a bet, and I actually _need _my meds for something other than the buzz."

Tritter chewed on his gum again, slowly. "Say I could do it. You get to see me squirm for a week, and in return, I get what?"

"I'm broke," House declared, "You have enough of my humiliating secrets already, and I doubt you're interested in sexual favors. What does that leave?"

"It was _your _idea." Tritter sounded a little annoyed.

Realizing he was serious, House applied himself to the problem and produced a real answer: "You weren't crazy about spending two hours in the waiting room last time," he remembered. "If you win this bet, from now on I'll see you the minute you walk into the hospital. For anything, for free."

Tritter pursed his lips, thinking. "And you will treat me with the level of professionalism and courtesy expected of a doctor no matter how _boring_ you find me. If I do ever show up, with so much as a cold or a pulled muscle, I expect to be taken seriously. And not, though it should go without saying, be given a rectal thermometer."

"But if you _can't _do it," House added in a flash of inspiration, "I have this whole handful of speeding tickets that you can make go away. Don't you think you'll have _fun _bending rules for me?"

The look on Tritter's face said he would rather saw his foot off with a butter knife, but he held out his hand steadily.

"Deal." House shook, then nodded towards the garbage can. "Now, spit."

* * *

House found Wilson smoking on the balcony again, and hurried over to share what he had done. 

But the first thing out of Wilson's mouth when he heard the story was: "He played you. House... he played you bigtime."

"Yeah?" House was annoyed. "Because here I was thinking _I _was the one who played _him_. I got him to voluntarily undergo nicotine withdrawal, cold turkey, under the watchful eye of a doctor who's going to laugh every time he- what?"

Wilson shook his head. "No... he _wanted _this. Think about it: he hates being hooked. He obviously can't quit on his own... but he knows that with _you _standing over him he'd sooner _die _than give in. You are _helping _this guy quit smoking, House. You're like his AA sponsor or something. You're doing him a favor."

House frowned. How had he missed that angle? "As an oncologist, shouldn't you be _happy _about that?" he sassed after a moment. He took a drag of Wilson's cigarette and handed it back. "And how many is that today?"

Wilson shrugged. When he rubbed the back of his neck, smoke wreathed his head and made him blink. "I only bought two packs. When they're out, I'm done."

"Only you," House complained, "Can do a mid-life crisis in moderation."

"This is not in any way, shape, or form a _mid-life crisis_!"

"Whatever." House pulled himself up onto the wall. "Let me do you a favor, help save you from yourself." He made a _gimme_ gesture, and Wilson got him out a fresh cigarette with a sigh.

"Thinking of my welfare as always, House. Thanks."

"No problemo. Got a light?"

They sat smoking side-by-side for a bit. Wilson eventually ventured: "How are you holding up?"

"And they say _I'm _the masochist," House muttered, before turning to snap: "_Stop asking_." After a moment, though, he relented and said quietly: "I'm fine. I wish I had a case though... it hurts all the fucking time. It's better when I have something else to think about."

"Yeah... from the little incident with the transvestite wrestler, I gather you've been actually _in_ the clinic. Working." He meant to follow up with a joke, but what he said instead was: "This... isn't right. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. There's a huge upside to this whole thing that makes it all worthwhile."

Wilson blinked. "Which is...?"

"No idea." House hopped down from the wall, wincing just a little. "But I'm sure there is one." He ground out his cigarette and started to leave the patio. He paused at the door, turned to see how Wilson had taken it, and winced at finding him even worse than expected. At first he wanted to (_apologize_) cheer him up with an offer of coffee... but he knew it probably wouldn't be enough. Then he wanted to duck out and just forget about cheering him up. Then he realized _I can always make it up to him later _sounded suspiciously like the smoker's logic he'd just finished mocking Tritter for, and, unwilling to be shown up by such a vile specimen of humanity, he bit the bullet.

"Listen, I guess I should probably…" He stopped, skipping over the word. "I've been an ass lately. Especially Christmas Eve. What I said stands," he qualified quickly. "But I was in a lot of pain, and I was lashing out… even more than usual. So I'm sorry. I..." He groped for words and finally came up with: "Hope you... feel better."

Wilson laughed a little. House was still hovering there as though waiting for an answer, so he finally said: "Thanks. I will. Actually I... maybe do."

* * *

When House got back to the conference room, Chase was waiting for him. "Good news: I think we have a case." 

"Since when is more work _good news_?" House shot back. He was a little annoyed, because if they had a case then his personal life was going to take back seat to it for a while, which meant he had just apologized to Wilson for nothing - he could easily have dodged and avoided as usual, instead of making himself feel all drained and uncomfortable. He backtracked over what Chase had said and added: "You _think _we have a case?"

"Yeah. I was down the clinic today-"

House tapped his cane against the floor. "The only way I'll listen to a clinic story is if you keep my attention with the stick in the meantime."

"Sure." While they moved into House's office and closed the blinds, Chase kept chatting: "You know, you're lucky we've found something good for you to do - the three of us have only been in the clinic for an hour, and we've _all _had an STD swab already. Looks like Foreman's won the lottery - his is an old lady with some kind of weird anal leakage. Okay... you ready?"

Already in position, House shifted on his feet. "Thank you for that delightful visual, Dr. Chase."

"Take that as a yes?" _Crack_.

House grabbed for his ass with both hands and waited til he was sure he could speak normally. "So, this maybe-case...?"

"You really want to hear about it _now_?"

"Sure." He made a go-ahead gesture and then planted his hands back on his desk.

"Okay." _Crack. _"So I was in the waiting room, and this guy jumped up out of the blue and went berserk. He tore around screaming in agony… -ready?"

_Crack._ They waited til House was able to relax and prompt: "Right, screaming in agony...?"

"Yeah," Chase resumed after a bit. "He kept on until we grabbed him and sedated him. From what I saw it looked like sudden, unbelievably severe head pain, and maybe some kind of psychosis. That's all I have so far. Far as I know he's still unconscious. They're putting a file together now."

"Hmm..." House arched his eyebrow suggestively.

"We've got time, if that's what you mean."

"Wilson's," House decided. "Bring the stick. We'll talk this through afterwards - there's nothing we can do yet anyway, not til his information gets here."

They passed Wilson on the patio. Chase stopped dead. "You smoke?" was the first thing he could think to say.

House, undisturbed, breezed right by him. "We're borrowing your office for a couple of minutes."

Wilson just heaved a sigh and admonished "You kids play nice."

Chase flushed but House was grinning like an idiot - for all his disapproval, Wilson was still hilarious. "Yes, mommy."

* * *

"Okay, now where were we?" House lowered his pants and braced against the desk. "Go for it." 

But when the blow came he jumped. "Ow _ah _Jesus!"

It wasn't much different from what he usually said, but Chase could hear something odd in his tone. "You okay?"

"Wait," House gasped.

"Did I hit a sore spot?" It seemed the best explanation for why all of a sudden House could hardly tolerate even a light caning.

"No… ow, _wow._" House shook his head the way he might after polishing off a particularly stiff drink. "Okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." But when he felt Chase shift behind him, raising the stick, he panicked and clasped his hands behind him. "Nonowait-"

"Sure, okay. What's the matter – what do you want?" As articulate as he usually was, House didn't seem to have any input right now and so Chase had to work it out for himself. He'd seen this sort of thing at parties once or twice. People could slide into the zone and be comfortable with damage far and beyond what they usually enjoyed… but just as fast, every now and then, they could fall out.

He hesitated for just half a second, before reminding himself that _House _was trusting him here, House who was absolutely impossible to please. If he was good enough for House, then there was really no need to doubt himself at all. "Okay," he said quietly, setting the stick down on the desk where House could see it. He spanked with his hand instead, firm and slow, and assured: "Just this for a bit. Breathe."

House straightened his arms to stand up straighter. "I _am _breathing…"

"Hardly. Breathe – don't talk. Breathe deep… mm-hmm, that's it. You're fine." After a bit, he asked, "You have a lot on your mind or something?"

"Yeah. Wilson… the cop… the case… _mmn_-" He was calming down already. "It's been a long day, and it just started."

Chase tried not to show his amazement at being told even that much. "Well, forget all that for right now, and just relax a second. Better?" When House nodded, he asked (without yet reaching for it), "Want to try the stick again – but slow?" Another nod.

Chase had to remind _himself _to breathe when he drew back his arm just a little and gave a light tap. Would House be spooked again? It didn't seem like it. "You're doing fine," he said aloud.

He was absolutely _mortified _when House peeked over his shoulder to ask, smirking, "Was that to you, or me?"

Chase knew he wouldn't get away with lying. "Both."

"Mmm. Go ahead – you _are _doing fine. I, on the other hand, am an embarrassment."

Chase cracked him a little sharper, and got no reaction beyond the usual hiss and wriggle. "Now, you know that's not true. You're doing great. Ready?"

"Yup. _Fuck!_" House waited for the pain to fade a bit before trying to snipe effectively. "Ass-kisser."

Chase laughed. "So says the man currently bent over a desk for me. Ready?"

"Yeah. _Ow! _Ahjeez_-_" His hands balled up and he relaxed them with an effort. "Oh fucking god it's burning… The good kind though. Gimme a second… and then you can go hard if you want."

"Call me any more names and I just might," Chase pretend-sulked. He landed a few solid ones, but when the gasps became airy and the swearing stopped, he figured it was time to finish up. "Everyone'll be pissed off if I incapacitate you," he explained. "We have to stop now before you get all loopy."

House pulled up his jeans with a sigh. "People only love me when I'm miserable," he complained, then flopped down on the couch. "Fine: go spring Foreman and Cameron and let's get started. And get rid of-"

"-the STD patients?" Chase anticipated. "Already sent 'em home. I said we'd call with the test results as soon as they come in. Could be tomorrow."

"Or a week from tomorrow, depending how big an emergency our headache patient is."

"True. Don't get your hopes up, though. The headache could be nothing..."

"But it _could _be not nothing." House gestured for a Twizzler from the brand new jar he'd installed on Wilson's desk. When Chase handed it to him, he bit the end off decisively. "Which makes it much more interesting than slutty old ladies or kids with a stomach flu. Or even slutty old ladies with a stomach flu."

"And thank you for _that_ delightful visual, Dr. House." Chase dipped him a quick bow. "I'll go see if we've got anything yet."

* * *

TBC. 

I'll try and update again this week. In the meantime, go check out my story Coldest Month of the Year. When I wrote it I'd intended it to be a story where Wilson's sanity takes a hit and he starts hearing voices, but everyone seems to have interpreted it as a supernatural fic where people are actually communicating from beyond the grave. Re-reading it, I can see why and I guess I kind of like it that way... but it's not what I originally meant. Should I post a final chapter that would clear things up one way or another, or leave it as is?


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: This is SO not a whole chapter, I'm sorry. I'm going away for a few days and I didn't want to leave without posting first, so I'm just putting up what I have now and will post longer when I come home. Early next week, hopefully.

* * *

The next morning Tritter greeted him by cracking his gum. 

"Are you cheating after _one day_?" House demanded, incredulous.

Tritter reached into his pocket and showed off a pack of Trident.

"Hmph. Well, you know you can never trust an addict. Let me see for myself." House got right up in his face to smell his breath. When that didn't provoke much reaction, he took it a step further. "Okay, you're clean so far, but I doubt you'll be clean for long. How about _you_ go through some kind of intrusive testing procedure that violates your personal boundaries every morning... no? Not your cup of tea? Then here:" He got something from his own pocket and stuck it into the detective's hand. "Now there won't be any questions."

Tritter frowned at it. "Bubble Yum?"

"I'm more of a Bubbalicious man myself," House explained. "I thought I'd give you the kind that tastes worse."

In revenge for all the lip Tritter made the drug screen even more annoying than usual. He fussed over House's shirt not being tucked up properly and his pants not low enough - something he had let go for the last few days - and then instead of handing off the plastic cup directly, he put it down on the sink several feet from where House was standing.

Lurching around without the cane was never easy. Doing it while his pain was being improperly managed was a shady proposition at best, and it turned out that doing it while in pain _and _with his pants tangled around his legs was downright impossible.

His leg gave out unexpectedly after one awkward step, and he hop-stumbled forward until he could catch himself on the sink, swearing.

When he looked in the mirror he saw that Tritter hadn't made a move. Not that he _wanted _assistance, of course, but he was definitely used to people starting towards him when they saw him trip. It was kind of creepy to be around someone who completely lacked the instinct to help.

Tritter seemed to pick up on his unease. He pressed his advantage. "Bad day?" he asked sympathetically.

"Actually, no," House snapped back, "I'm fine. Thanks for caring."

"What's it feel like?"

As always the detective was a tough read. House saw only polite curiosity... but then, that was often the case when Tritter was busting his chops. He decided to answer, if only to prove that his chops were unbustable. "Ever had somebody give you a dead arm?" he said finally. There weren't really words for it, so this would have to do. "You know that second of... deep, sick kind of pain? Imagine a guy following you around punching you that way 24/7, no matter what you do... Oh, and you have to walk on it, too. That's today, and it's a good day." Despite his determination to be a rock, talking about his problems was making him cranky.

Tritter seemed to pick up on it. "Mm. What's it like on a bad day?"

The little half-smile was just _too _innocent to really be innocent, but he tried not to let it get to him. "Ever been kicked in the nads?" It was supposed to be rhetorical.

"Yeah - once badly. For a few seconds the only thing in the _world_ was how much I needed it to stop. Why?"

House wished he could have been there. "Exactly. So imagine strapping a perpetual-nads-kicking machine to yourself and then trying to walk around and go about your business like nothing's the matter - and deal with _idiots _asking you _stupid _questions about it on top of everything else! Sound like fun?"

"No," Tritter said, beaming at him.

House couldn't come up with anything less childish than, "I hate you."

"I know. I am... the meanest mommy in the whole, entire world."

After a deep breath, House rejected his first four-letter impluse and managed to play it cool. "And the ugliest."

* * *

Chase was annoyed. 

The morning had started out in a very promising way: Headache Guy had woken up from sedation, clutched at his head, moaned in pain and immediately started vomiting. Other than a slightly elevated white count his bloodwork looked normal. There wasn't any obvious trauma to the head, but the patient couldn't complete even the most basic neurological exam because the pain meant he had to be sedated again as soon as he woke up.

All in all, the case had all the earmarks of a mystery, which would please House and hence make _everyone's _life easier.

But instead of getting to deal with it, here Chase was in the clinic, dispensing STD meds to the weepy young woman he'd seen yesterday.

"It's fine, I _said _it's treatable. Now take your prescription and go home," he told her irritably. "You'll be fine."

"I have an _STD_," she repeated in a whisper, for about the tenth time.

"Look, yes, I know," Chase said as he wrote in her chart. "It's unfortunate. It's temporary. Next time, practice safe sex and it won't happen."

"_Next_ time?!" she gasped, and her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

Chase frowned. "Are you going to-?" He moved fast for a basin, just in case.

She nodded and then shook her head. She bit back a sob.

Feeling a little guilty now, Chase sighed and tried to soothe her. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

But when his hand descended on her shoulder she jerked and slapped it off. "_Don't touch me_!"

* * *

TBC. 

We're beginning to kind of approach the end soon, so if there's something you particularly want to see (other than boiling Tritter in oil, which I can't for the life of me think of a plausible way to do) let me know.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: finally, the other half of last chapter. this is somewhat Chasecentric, but don't worry: House gets his chance to do something stupid.

* * *

House didn't like his pages to be ignored. He listened at the exam room doors until he found the Australian accent, then barged on in. "Chase - let's go. Need you." 

"Not now."

House blinked, not at all used to being blown off. "Yes now. You have work to do - actual work, doctor work. _This _is a job for a gumball machine or a pharmacist."

"House-" Chase hissed, glancing nervously at the patient.

House turned to her too, and looked her up and down. "You're fine," he declared. "Your chart says chlamydia, you don't look like you're dying, and Chase has spent more than enough time handing you tissues. No he's not going to tell your boyfriend, or your parents, yes it will go away, and no there's nothing else he can do for you right now. Capish?"

"_House_!" Chase repeated.

The girl sniffled first so she could snap clearly. "Who the hell is he?"

"That's my boss-"

"I'm his daddy, who says he absolutely can _not _come out to play until he gets his homework done. Chase. Now."

"Is it an emergency, Doctor?" she asked Chase. "Because I can wait here until you're done..."

Chase winced. "Eve, Dr. House may be a jerk but he's right - there's nothing more I can do for you. I'll refer you to a-"

"No!" she barked. "No counselor. _You _can stay with me, or you can send me home. That's it. If you send in a shrink, or a cop, I won't say a word. I'll say nothing happened. And I'll... I'll kick him in the balls." She crossed her arms defiantly.

"Uh... Wait here for one second, okay? We'll sort this out." Chase followed House out and closed the door behind them. "Look, she..."

"Ya think?" House scathed, then quirked his eyebrows. "Hey, if she's serious about kicking a cop in the balls, I could call Tritter."

"I'm going to send a counselor in for her as soon as I can find one," Chase said firmly. "I'll just tell them to wear a cup."

He'd figured House would be amused, but instead he pointed out: "She wants to talk to _you_."

"Since when do _you_ care what a patient wants?" Chase snorted. "Tell me what's up with Headache Guy."

House shook his head and ordered, "Forget Headache Guy - I'll take care of it. You're staying here. You're not forcing a shrink on her, on top of whatever else."

House's unexpected show of sympathy gave Chase an idea. "So why don't _you _stay with her?" he suggested. "You know better than most how damaged people think."

Too far? No, House didn't take offense. He just shrugged and countered: "But _you _know better than most how to help damaged people get through their day. In this particular case, your superpower trumps mine. Talk to her. Don't discharge her til you're sure she's okay." As though only now realizing how he sounded, he added quickly, "Cuddy will be really pissed if she kills herself in the lobby."

* * *

"I heard that," Eve accused as soon as Chase came back. 

He swallowed. "Dr. House was only- Er..."

"_Kidding. _Yeah, I know." The word didn't offend her the way he'd thought it might - she had bigger fish to fry. "What did he mean, that you know how to help...?"

"Dr. House has something of a... _dismal _life," Chase said delicately. "He has a hard time opening up to people about it."

"But sometimes he'll talk to you." She cocked her head. "I don't blame him - there's something about you that makes people... It's like you have an instinct to care."

"No," he denied with a nervous laugh. "No, I really..."

They looked at each other. "Why would you deny caring?" she asked softly, and Chase looked away. "The idea annoys you. You think it makes you weak...?"

Chase sat down on the table next to her. "I think," he said after a moment, "That you ask very penetrating questions, and that if I'm not careful they're going to distract us from the real problem here." He waited til she flashed her eyes up to him before insisting: "We're going to get you a counselor who can help you through this. I'm not qualified to-"

"I don't want to talk about it. I'm not looking to be _helped through it_. And anyway, you _are_ qualified," she argued, with a bit of a smile. "Your _daddy_ says so."

Chase smiled back. "I've no idea what made him think that. It can't be the _caring_ thing," he muttered absently. "That always pisses him off."

"But it's something," she pressed. "He _knew _to trust you. I did too. Or at least I thought I did." She was getting a little agitated. "But obviously my radar's off, you know, or I wouldn't even _be _here. This was all my fault. What happened to me, I mean."

"No." Chase hopped to his feet and stood over her. "Look, I may not know much about rape counseling, but I can tell you for certain that it's _not your fault_."

"Yeah? How would you know? You don't even know what happened." She took a shuddery breath and twisted her hands further in her sleeves, then explained, "That's not what I meant, though. I know it's not my _fault_, I just... I screwed up. I didn't assume the worst of this guy, and apparently I should have. I mean, how do you know when it's okay to trust people?" Her voice finally gave out and she whispered the rest, through tears. "How am I going to know, after this?"

* * *

In the meantime, now that he was short a minion, House had to spend some time with Headache Guy in person. He woke him up and immediately observed from the way he clutched at himself that it was an earache, not a headache. 

From there it was just a hop skip and a jump to a diagnosis. Bugs in ears were gross, bug _bites _in ears were painful, but there really wasn't much of a mystery to it.

Faux-Headache Guy was packed up and shipped home.

House was bored, and aching, and Chase was occupied, and the day was only half over.

* * *

By the next morning, the pain and the boredom were both worse. He was in a terrible mood and all ready to take it out on Tritter... except that Tritter never showed up. 

Eleven AM and House was thoroughly sick of waiting for him. He called the detective's cell to snarl: "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm busy," Tritter answered shortly. "No test today. I called in, you're in the clear."

"What could possibly be more important than-"

"Tomorrow, House." _Click._

House sat and fidgeted in annoyance, then called again. "Not now!" Tritter answered at once. "When the rain starts we lose what little evidence there is here. I don't have time for this."

"You son-of-a-bitch!" House banged his hand on his desk. "I was _miserable _all night; I didn't take the pill I would have sold my _soul _for, and now you're not even going to bother coming in to get your sadistic little kick out of it? Screw you!"

"Maybe I'll enjoy it later. But I'm busy now. Don't call again." _Click_.

The idea of feeling _rejected _over this was ridiculous, but House couldn't quite soothe his vanity enough to get any work done.

So, instead of going to the clinic, he trolled the internet for pictures and put together a craigslist ad under Tritter's cell number. BBW HOT TO TROT, he called it first, then decided _BBW HOT TO TROT NOW_ would better ensure the desired results. His long, detailed study of fringe porn made it easy for him to draft an ad that would make a stripper blush, and he capped it off with a picture of a large, pasty rear end gripped by hands with a ridiculous purple manicure.

There.

* * *

TBC. 

Yeah, House never learns, does he.

Next chapter is longer. Extra extra, read all about it: renowned doctor provokes giant shitstorm...


End file.
